


Of The Mighty Stars

by summoner_yuna_of_besaid



Series: Middle-Earth Madness [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Elves are Dicks, M/M, Orcs Are People, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoner_yuna_of_besaid/pseuds/summoner_yuna_of_besaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azog survived the Battle of Five Armies, but he might not last much longer.  Every orc in Middle Earth is hunting him, and he can't run forever.  </p>
<p>When he enters Rivendell, he expects the elves to kill him - but to the surprise of everyone, orc and elf, Lord Elrond spares his life.  It is a choice that will change both men forever.</p>
<p>The others see a monster, but when Elrond looks at Azog, he sees a shade from the past... and perhaps a chance to ask questions which have long gone unanswered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Help Me See You

**Author's Note:**

> This is all thanks to Thorinsmut's amazing Diplomatic Relations story, which got me thinking about orcs in ways I never had before. 
> 
> While I started The Hearts of Kings first, this is a prequel to that story, and events that begin here will continue to play out there. 
> 
> Warnings for elves being bigots, mentions of torture, death, and a little bit of violence but not much.

_Mere feet from where the Dark Lord had fallen, Elrond knelt, cradling his fallen lord and weeping._

_Few dared come so close; as if the fell spirit had somehow poisoned the very ground where he had been slain.  Men had come and taken Elendil’s body away, to be honored, the shards of Narsil gone with him and his son, the new King.  But Gil-Galad, none had touched, save him._

_His tears fell upon the fallen king’s cheek, cleansing some of the dirt and blood away.  Why did it always come to this?  Why was he always left alone?  He asked this of the body but it did not answer.  Eyes that would never open again, lips that would never smile again, they mocked him with their familiarity and the strange unnatural stiffness which had stolen over the body._

_This was more than Elrond’s tragedy.  Gil-Galad, last of the High Kings of the Noldor, had fallen upon Dagorlad, never to rise again.  He must be honored, must be remembered – Elrond sat up to call to those near him, who had stood nearby, nervous to approach.  What were they doing, just waiting there?  Gil-Galad should not be left to rot here, they must – must take him away…_

_But where was Aeglos, the spear with which Gil-Galad had fought his final foe, and fallen in honorable defeat?  They could not leave behind so treasured a weapon, which should be kept in memory of its great wielder… almost panicking, Elrond half-made to stand, to find Aeglos, when the man approached._

_He thought it to be a man.  Wearing the armor of Arnor, bearing its standard upon his shield, the stranger came.  In his left hand, he bore Aeglos, which had been thrown some distance away during the battle.  The man came closer than any other had dared to stand beside Gil-Galad’s fallen form.  Under his helm, Elrond saw the man look to his king, before bowing his head, resting upon one knee to place the spear in the crook of the King’s arm._

_When he lifted his head, he met Elrond’s eyes, and the elf stared in shock to see them.  They were eyes of no man.  A strange bright yellow, with slits for pupils, like some sort of beast.  But… there was kindness in them.  There was pity, understanding, a heart which knew what it meant to mourn the fallen.  The man with bright eyes spoke then, in Sindarin._

_“_ I mourn with thee,” _The man told him, before standing, and turning to go. Elrond watched, transfixed, only able to find his voice once he had gone._

_By then, it was too late.  The approach of the man had broken the spell which kept his fellow elves at bay.  They came forward to collect the king, and someone put their arms around Elrond, pulled him up, held him close.  He was crying again, though he did not know it, looking out with bleak eyes upon the way the man had gone._

_Oh, what did it matter who that stranger was?  Gil-Galad and so many others were dead.  What did anything matter at all?_

_But he remembered those eyes…_

 

* * *

 

There were thirteen left of the force which had been sent after him.  One he’d badly wounded in their last fray; that one would die soon.  It was little satisfaction, but Azog would take what he could.

They’d been hunting him since he escaped Dol Guldur, and would not stop until he was dead.  If he killed them all, more would come.  There was a price on his head now, and every orc and goblin in Middle-Earth would know of it.  He did not fear such things, in fact, he would welcome death.  But he shall not simply give his life to these cretins.

Then, he might not have to, Azog thought dryly.  He was wounded enough, and tired, after weeks of hiding and running on little rest and food.  An orc could take quite a beating, but even they had their limits.  This would not continue forever.

An arrow struck a tree trunk near Azog, and he ducked just in time to keep his head.  _Run, move!_ Azog forced himself forward, compelled to struggle to live despite the pain, despite everything.  Whether he wanted to live or not he would not surrender, not to them, not to anyone!

Another arrow flew through the air, and Azog had to drop fully to the ground to keep from being struck.  The fall hurt, more than it should; some of his cracked ribs must’ve broken, then.  Perhaps worse… moving to stand again, Azog found he couldn’t.  His body simply would not move, his limbs heavy as iron…

A string of curses escaped his cracked lips as he forced his arms under himself, but only managed to flip onto his back… and look up into the eyes of an elven archer, bow drawn.

 _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

“The palette shall consist of greens, and that is that.”

Elrond did not have to turn around to know what Lindir must’ve looked like; he heard the elf’s scoff, and could hear the scorn in his voice.  It was a subtle tone shift, but to an elf, it was practically vicious.

“The delegation shall be arriving in mid-winter, and the valley shall be laden in snow.  The house of Imladris always uses whites, blues, and light purples then!”

“Most winters,” Erestor retorted with his own haughty tone.  “We do not have the entire royal family of Erebor calling upon our hospitality.  Green and gold are the colors of the house of Durin.”

“Why should we go to such lengths to make our home suitable to their tastes?”

Glorfindel glanced at Elrond.  “Are you going to let them keep on forever?”

Elrond pointedly did not meet his eyes.  “They may do as they wish.”

If he’d looked up, he’d have seen the disappointment in his friend’s face.  As it was, Elrond’s gaze was faraway, looking out over the balcony into the valley, towards the mountains.  But it was not the mountains he looked to, no.  Glorfindel wondered which of them he was dwelling upon now. 

Was he imagining Caras Galadon, where Arwen remained with the Lady of the Woods?  Or did he look to the north, to Esteldin, to the Rangers who had taken in his human ward?  Or did he let his eyes move across the mountains, hoping for some sign of his twin boys, who traveled far and long into the wilds, into danger and darkness far from his sight?

Most likely, his thoughts were with all of them.

“Come,” Stepping away from the banister, Glorfindel approached Lindir and Erestor, distracting them from one another.  “We may continue this discussion another time; I do not believe our Lord is in the mood for it.”

Elrond let them go without a word.

In his hands, he held a letter, one of a few which had reached him over the last year.  It came from the North Downs, a short note written in a boyish scrawl.  Elrond glanced down at it, read it over for the hundredth time since he’d received it yester eve. 

_Training goes well.  The Rangers are kind to me.  Too late in the year to come down now; maybe spring.  A_

He cherished those twenty words as if they were gold.  But they hurt; the confirmation that Estel’s heart was still turned against him, that he would not see his boy this winter… that none of his children would be home for the solstice.

He tried to pretend it did not hurt as much as it did.

“My lord!”

Elrond turned, tucking the letter into the inside of his cloak, as one of his guards came up the stairs. 

“A company of orcs came near the borders of the valley.”  The guard began quickly. “But it was – strange.  They were hunting one of their own.”

Elrond cocked an eyebrow.  “Orcs and goblins tend to have dissent within their ranks.”  Especially given the events of the last year, the retaking of Erebor, and the Battle of Five Armies, the fall of Dol Guldur.  The servants of Sauron had not had a good time of it of late.

“This one, we believe it is the Defiler, - Azog.”  That drew Elrond’s attention.  The Defiler’s body had not been found at Erebor, and it was well known that Oakenshield and his company were out for his blood. 

“Is he dead?”

The elf shook his head.  “He may be, soon.  We have taken him captive – he awaits you.”  Gesturing for his Lord to take the lead, the elf stepped to the side. 

Azog, in Rivendell?  If it was true, Oakenshield would be furious.  To have his mortal enemy caught and detained by elves?  To be in their debt?  The thought of Thorin’s indignant ire brought a small smile to Elrond’s face. 

So he came to the pavilion where his guards held Azog, the orc on his knees, kneeling in his own blood.  The wounds were not elven; he’d come to them this way, then.  His own people turned against him, perhaps for his failure to take Erebor.  Elrond considered the beast with narrowed eyes as he came closer, and Azog lifted his head, and –

Those _eyes_.

He halted mid-step, his own eyes widening in a mix of shock and horror.  It couldn’t be.  But the longer he stared, the more true it seemed.  The battle had been an Age ago, but the memory of elves was long and this was a sight Elrond would not soon forget. 

“My Lord?”

Stunned beyond belief, Elrond ignored the call, approaching Azog carefully.  He had to be sure.  But no – this couldn’t – it was a ridiculous thought.  Orcs were not long-lived, and why would an orc have fought with men _against_ Sauron?  It just didn’t make sense…

The orc held his gaze, eyes darkened with pain, but he was smiling.  When Elrond was close enough, Azog spit at him, but it was more blood than anything else.  The guards immediately set upon the orc but Elrond called out to them in dismay.

“Hold!”  He hardly knew he’d spoken until he’d done so.  Still he stared at those familiar eyes.  “Take him to my chambers.”

“My lord?”

“Do as I say.”  He had only to repeat himself once, before his guards were lifting the half-dead orc and moving with him.  Azog went under on the way there, which was just as well.  This healing would not be pleasant.

 

* * *

 

For three days and nights Elrond fought to save the life of Azog the Defiler.  His people questioned it, were shocked to see the greatest of elven healers choosing to use his gifts to help a beast.  But none would stand in his way, and those who would pull him aside and ask for answers, received little in return.

On the third evening, Elrond stormed from the room, and was beset upon immediately by Erestor and Lindir.

“My lord, are you well?  Have you eaten?”

“When was it last you rested?”

“Enough,” Breaking through them, he strode forward, ignoring his shadows as both followed.  “I will rest in time.”

“Why are you devoting yourself so to this beast?”  Erestor caught up quickly.  “Surely the favor of the line of Durin does not matter so greatly?”

“It is not for them, nor anyone but myself, that I do this,” Elrond insisted.  “I realize it is… strange –“

“An understatement!”  Lindir scoffed, and a harsh look from his lord cowed the usually respectful and demure elf. 

“But I have my reasons.  I must ask you to trust me.”

They continued to follow and question him about it until he came to the library, where he insisted upon privacy, and shut them out.  Then he went to his task, scanning shelves he knew well to withdraw the tomes he desired.

“A little late for light reading?”

Elrond almost scowled.  “I suppose I should have expected you to join in sooner or later.”

Glorfindel stepped out from the shadows with a slight frown on his face.  “You are very wise, Lord of Imladris.”

Still facing the books, Elrond quipped.  “It sounds almost as if you mean to convince yourself of that.”

“Merely reminding the both of us,” He continued as he came to stand by his friend.  “For this course of action does not seem like you at all.”

“It is unwise, you mean?”

“What else could it be?”  Glorfindel turned to him, but still Elrond kept his gaze in his books.  A hand came over the page, and finally Elrond lifted his head with a sigh.

“I have questions that this orc can answer, and perhaps only he can.”  Elrond told him.  “I realize it is beyond unorthodox, even dangerous…”

Glorfindel awaited him to continue with patience, but Elrond found he did not know what else to say.  Their eyes met, and it was the elder’s turn to sigh.  “Very well.  I trust you.  But I shall be keeping a careful vigil over your quarters so long as he is there.”

Elrond smiled, gathering the tomes he had collected together.  “I expected nothing less.”

 

* * *

 

 

_There are few places left to run._

_The eagles have overtaken the skies, and their enemies have the ground.  The battle is lost; Azog calls for retreat, even as he breaks rank to find the only one whose life he truly cares for._

_“Bolg!”  He will not leave the battlefield without him.  If his son has already fallen here, then Azog will fall here as well, taking every last accursed elf, dwarf, and man that he can with him._

_But Bolg has not fallen.  Azog sees him coming across the field, still astride his warg, and when he comes to a halt beside his father, he extends his hand for him._

_“Quickly!”  As soon as his father is behind him, Bolg sets the beast to running, and they fly across the field.  By some stroke of luck, they escape with their lives.  But that luck does not last for long…_

 

* * *

 

 

Lord Elrond knew little of orcish healing. 

It was not something he’d ever tried, nor something he’d had any chance to learn of.  Orcs had always been enemies of elves, since first they appeared as thralls of Morgoth.  Even after his downfall, and Sauron’s defeat, orcs and goblins had beset the free peoples of Middle-Earth with pain and sorrow, murdering and pillaging and –

He found himself clutching at his heart, as if struck, and Elrond turned away.

Why was he doing this?  To answer some age-old question, to set his curiosity at peace?  This was greater than foolishness, it was a travesty!  If his boys could see him now… if Celebrian…

The thought of his wife sent new pains threw Elrond.  Collapsing in a chair near the bed where the orc rested, Elrond let out a tired sigh and put his head in his hands. 

Madness or no, it seemed his attempt would fail.  He had tried everything he knew to try, put all his power into the healing of this orc; but while his wounds repaired themselves and his body recovered, still he would not wake.  As if death had come over him while still he lived, the orc remained in a dark slumber none could wake him from. 

Days had passed, and Lord Elrond’s power as a healer was not miniscule.  The creature should have awoken by now!  Frustrated and tired and filled with sorrow and a feeling of loss he could not explain, Elrond was forced to admit this was a battle he might lose.

There simply were no other wounds to treat. Unless…

No, it couldn’t be.  Struck by the thought, Elrond stood again, approaching the books he’d gathered nearby.  He did not have to read them to know what they said, but still, for want of something to do he scanned through one, thoughts racing.  It simply couldn’t be… it was not possible…

If elves were wounded, they might heal and still never wake – for if their soul, the light which gave them life, was held down by wounds of its own, that alone might kill them.  Sadness, grief, loneliness might kill an elf who otherwise seemed fine. 

But an orc?

Elrond scoffed aloud at his own folly.  Dwarves, men, hobbits, none of these had the blessing of the Eldar’s light, and they could be quite noble and decent people.  Orcs were neither of those things – an orc could not possible have any light within them.  Surely even if they did they would not be capable of dying from grief?  Did orcs even feel grief?

Still, it was his final resort, and Elrond found himself approaching his patient again.  It made no sense.  Yet… he remembered golden eyes shimmering with the same sadness that churned in his own breast that day upon Dagorlad.  And so he placed his hands against Azog’s temples, and closed his eyes.

_The orc’s mind is darkness, and flame.  It is what he knows, how he was born.  His first sight of the world was that lidless eye, ever burning, staring straight through his soul and demanding his allegiance with pain and promises of power._

_Power is what he was made for.  To wield his strength as a hammer against foes and allies alike, to strike fear in all hearts, to command the Dark Lord’s armies and lead him to victory.  He is not like the others.  They are made weak, frail, fodder for the front lines.  He is a General._

_For every loss, he is punished.  For victories, he is punished less.  But pain is a constant, reminding him of what awaits treachery, and defeat.  Scars and disfigurements are trophies of survival, signs of fealty to the Dark Lord.  He cuts his own skin, and somehow it hurts less when he controls the blade._

_Darkness, and flame… but yes, there is Light.  There is a flickering candle here, down in the deep… how did it come to be?  How could this exist?  These are questions for another time.  The healer reaches out to the flame, so frail, so weak, and in it he sees…_

_Azog is cradling a body.  There are dead orcs all around him, torn to utter shreds.  He has done it, of course.  They deserved worse, but in his maddening bloodlust he thought only to kill them, not of making them suffer._

_The arrow was not meant for him. It was Azog’s death the Dark Lord called for.  He had failed too many times, failed to end the line of Durin, failed to keep them from the mountain.  The reclaiming of Erebor has cost the Dark Lord much, and someone must pay._

_They escaped the battle only to find their own people turned upon them.  Every orc wants his head, to please the Dark Lord, to perhaps fill the vacant spot his death will leave.  They came to them, to their allies, looking for aid, and found betrayal._

_The arrow was meant for Azog, but Bolg leapt in its way, killed instantly by the steel which struck through his skull.  Azog saw red.  Now, he is covered in blood, cradling his son and he is weeping._

_The healer watches.  Azog is muttering under his breath, something in orcish, and here, the healer can sense its meaning.  These are mournful words, farewells, they are filled with love, the sorrow of a father who has lost his son… and he can hardly believe it._

_Yet he feels it in the very air around him.  Azog is mourning. And now he cares not to live because the last of his family is gone, his people have turned on him, and he has nothing now.  The realization is shocking, but it is true.  He knows it has to be true, and that fact alone has thrown the healer’s entire world into question._

_He steps forward, slowly, carefully.  He is not sure if Azog sense him here.  Perhaps he does not care.  He comes to kneel beside the fallen Bolg, and inclines his head respectfully.  When he lifts his gaze, Azog is finally looking at him with those golden eyes._

_Elrond makes sure to hold his gaze steady when he speaks.  “I mourn with thee,”_

_Azog stares numbly, still lost in grief – but only for a moment before he strikes._

* * *

 

 

He went for the elf’s throat first, eager to tear it out and spray his blood across the walls.  But the elf countered, lifting his forearms to block Azog’s reach, then caught Azog in the chest with his feet.  They went tumbling to the ground, and the elf kicked out to throw Azog over him. 

He landed on his feet, spun, and charged his opponent, who had just enough time to stand and turn and be hit with a barreling orc.  They flew through the room, out the open balcony doors, breaking the banister as they tumbled below. 

It was not a fight so much as a brawl, something orcs were very good at.  But to Azog’s surprise, the elf was pretty good at it too.  They traded blow after blow, using solely their fists, careening through the peaceful paths of Rivendell, leaving chaos in their wake.

Azog threw a punch, and the elf ducked, his blow landing upon an ornate pillar.  It cracked, and with another hit crumbled completely.  That brought the roof above them down, but both managed to dodge out of the way in time.  Standing in an open plaza, Azog glanced around, taking in his strange surroundings with wide, wild eyes.  Where was he?  Why the hell was he alive?  Where was his so –

It came to him, all of it, quite suddenly – and he let out a howl of rage and agony, falling to his knees at the realization. 

Quickly, Azog found himself surrounded by elven bows and arrows, and he expected to be shot down then and there.  Fine.  It would hardly be honorable, to die on his knees in front of elves, but he had allowed his son to die for him.  He had failed Bolg; his honor was already tarnished beyond repair.

The elf he was fighting came forward suddenly, yelling in their strange, soft language.  When he was done, the elves surrounding Azog hauled him up, and he was dragged through the place to a larger room.

Here, gathered a few new elves, and the one he’d attacked, who was from his dream… some nasty elvish magic.  Scowling, Azog watched the elf walk into the room, his clothes a little worse for wear, and he grinned viciously.  The elf met his eyes, and he did not seem mad.  The fact that he was so un-bothered burned under Azog’s skin.  He was not some trifle to be ignored!

They bound his arms and legs, forcing him to remain kneeling with his hands behind him.  Then, the elves all came together and bickered in their pithy little language for a time, leaving Azog to kneel on the floor with swords drawn all about him.  He scowled at their backs, appalled at the dishonor of elves, who would not finish a battle and kill their enemy honorably, but debase him by dragging him about like a toy and ignoring him?  Fuming, Azog half-made to stand and begin to fight again, when the elf finally turned his way.

He walked forward, dark eyes set upon Azog, hands clasped in front of him.  “Leave us,” Many of his servants audibly reacted with complaint – a level of disrespect and disloyalty that Azog could hardly believe was tolerated – before the elf repeated his words more harshly, and his people disbanded. 

“You are Azog, chief of the orcs of Moria, are you not?”  The elf began.

“I am chief of nothing,” He spat.  “And who are you, that dishonors his enemy and falls behind his men rather than finishing a fight?”

Again, the elf was unbothered, not even a flare of anger in his placid eyes.  “I am Lord Elrond of Rivendell, where you now reside.”

“Will you not just kill me already?”

“I am not going to kill you,” Pacing round Azog, Elrond held his hands behind him, his head aloft, and Azog wished very much to kill him.  “In fact, I have saved your life, and in return you have attacked me, and damaged my home.”

“I would do more than that, given the chance.”

“I am certain you would.”  Finally that empty expression breaks into a sardonic smile.  The elf came to stand in front of Azog again.  “What if I offered you a truce?”

“A truce?”  Laughing, Azog shook his head.  “I do not believe you.”

“I give you my word.”

He spat at the elf.  “That is what I think of an elf’s word.”  A frown appeared on the elf’s face, and Azog laughed again. 

Sighing, Elrond turned and approached a table nearby.  Azog watched him pick up a knife, and felt a cold, solid weight settle in his gut.  This was the end then.  It was not the end he would have wanted, once, but now he is simply satisfied to be done.  As the elf approached, Azog lifted his chin, daring the bastard to slit his throat.

But the elf stepped to his side, knelt, and took the knife to the bonds around his wrists and ankles.  In a moment he was free.  Surprised, Azog stood quickly, having had more than enough of being forced to his knees before elves.

“I offer you a haven away from battle.”  Elrond had his back to him – a foolish mistake.  Yet, Azog did not attack.  “Rivendell is outside the reach of your fellows, and here the Dark Lord will not find you.  In return, I ask that you repay your debt to me.”

Huffing, Azog clenched his fists.  “I would rather kill myself than be a slave to an elf!”

Elrond spun round, eyes flaring.  “No!”  Real anger revealed itself upon his face, for a moment, before the elf schooled his expression.  “No, not a slave.  You would be my guest, and treated as such.  I ask only the chance to speak with you, to learn what I can of you.”

This was… more than strange.  Grunting, Azog crossed his arms.  “I will not betray my people.”

“I will not ask you to.”  Elrond insisted.  “I ask only that you will try, that we might – attempt to speak as… allies.” 

“If I do not agree?”

Sighing, the elf placed the knife away, and turned back to Azog.  “Then I will let you go.”

“You cannot expect me to believe this.”  He laughed, shook his head.

Elrond gestured to the door.  “Go.  I have ordered my people not to stop you.  There is a bridge not far from here; a bag has been prepared with basic supplies.  Take it and go.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Azog turned to the elf.  Surely this was a ploy, some trick.  He would take the bag, cross the bridge, enter the woods and be shot down by elven archers.  What a backhanded, dishonorable way to kill.  But it mattered little.  Azog did not care about elven honor.  If this was how he was meant to die, then he would die, on his feet, rather than on his knees before this petty lord.

So, he took the bag, and he crossed the bridge, walked the long winding roads out of the valley.  Not a single elf stood in his way.  He knew they were watching them, could feel their eyes on his skin, but no one attacked him.  He left the valley unharmed, came to the wilds outside Rivendell free, and alive, and very confused.

It could very well be another elven trick, meant to make him believe this Elrond could be trusted.  Just another false layer in this elven riddle.  Or, could the elf really be telling the truth?  It was unlikely.  This all was part of some game, some scheme, and Azog wanted to unravel it, to know what this meant.  To know how far this elf’s trickery went.

 

* * *

 

 

The day after the end of the strange incidence with the orc, Lindir found Elrond in his study.

That was where he spent most of his time, when his children were gone.  That was more often the case now than ever.  Arwen had been with her grandmother for many decades now, and the twins left constantly to chase after orc packs and hunt down beasts.  Since Estel had been sent north to be trained with the Dunedain, Lord Elrond had been more alone than ever.

It was sad to see.  Many in Imladris had lost friends, and family, but here they found a new refuge to rebuild, thanks to Lord Elrond.  But it seemed he was the one denied the bliss he allowed others, unable to enjoy the peace he had created himself.  Those he loved were always leaving him.

Elrond was reading when Lindir came upon him.  He stood nearby, not wanting to interrupt, but when it seemed his lord would never look up and address him, Lindir cleared his throat.

“My Lord Elrond?”

“Ah, Lindir,” Not even looking up, Elrond merely crossed the space between them, eyes still on his book.  “You’ve come at an opportune time.  Perhaps you can lend fresh eyes to my research.”

“Of course, my Lord.”  He stepped closer, looking at the text.  “This is a history written by men?”

“Yes, of the Third Age.”  Elrond confirmed.  “What I am puzzled on is the wording… here.”  He pointed to a section, then began to read it aloud.

_“All living things were divided in that day, and some of every kind, even of beasts and birds, were found in either host, save the Elves only.  They alone were undivided and followed Gil-galad.  Of the Dwarves few fought upon either side; but the kindred of Durin of Moria fought against Sauron.”*_

“This is of the Last Alliance?”

“Yes, specifically of who allied with whom.”  Elrond continued, turning to his desk and setting the book down, still open upon it.  “Now, it seems to me, that paragraph implies that all the people of Middle-Earth, were “divided” between Sauron’s armies, and the Alliance.  Would you agree?”

“Well, yes.”  That was exactly what it said, wasn’t it?  “Except for elves, of course.”

Lord Elrond didn’t exactly seem pleased by that. “Yes,” He muttered, resting upon his hands on the desk, looking out towards his window.  “I thought as much.  Thank you, Lindir.”

“My Lord?”

“Yes?”

A little nervously, Lindir glanced back towards the door. “The orc, it’s, well – it’s back.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ve returned.”

Azog was facing the window, looking out over the valley, and didn’t turn to face him when he entered.  A power play; showing he did not see Elrond as a threat.  Elrond smirked at that.

“You did not kill me.”

“No,” The smirk became a smile.  “I did not.”

“But you will,” The orc turned, and at his harsh words Elrond’s smile dropped.  “You’ve some scheme in the works, and I will work it out.”

“Perhaps it is different for orcs, but elves do not so easily resort to violence.”

Azog let out a rumbling laugh.  “Don’t they?”

He wanted to refute him, but that would’ve been an argument of some length, one that he might not have won.  “Have you come to accept my offer?”

The orc smirked.  “I have – on one condition.”  Elrond quirked an eyebrow, half tempted to point out that this all began with him saving Azog’s life, and forgiving him for a rather violent assault.  But he kept quiet.

“And what is that?”

“You said you have questions of me, fine.”  Azog began to saunter slowly towards him, his metal claw dragging along the wooden railing, marring it.  Clearly he did it hoping to get a rise out of Elrond, which is exactly why Elrond pretended he didn’t even notice it happening.  “I have some for you, also.  For every question of yours I answer, I want one answer from you.”

That was not exactly what he had expected.  For a moment, he considered it, wondering how the orc was hoping to turn this to his advantage, before he nodded.  “Fair enough.”  Azog seemed surprised.  “If that is all, I will bid you good night.  Quarters have been prepared for you,” Elrond finally said.  “We may continue bickering in the morning.”

Elrond did not await his response; he simply went to bed.  It was late, he was tired, and feeling more keenly now those he missed.

 

* * *

 

 

To say that Azog was an unwelcome addition to Rivendell was a severe understatement.

No one, save Lord Elrond, understood why he was there, or wanted him; it was only out of respect for their leader that Azog was not killed where he stood.  As it was, few made him feel any semblance of welcome, and Azog spent most of his time in the woods around the Last Homely House.

He hunted during the day – something he later found the elves were particularly unhappy about.  After the first mishap where the haughty bastards treated his preparing dinner as akin to murder, he spread his hunting grounds further into the Trollshaws, if only to make them shut up.

In the evenings, he spent time with Lord Elrond, who would check over and fuss unnecessarily about his wounds (Azog almost wondered if elves were frail, for them to be so overbearing, but he had seen them in battle and they were not so).  Then, they would eat, usually in a tense, brooding silence, which would eventually break as Elrond went on about whatever inane topic he wished to discuss that night.

And he did not start small.

“Do you know where the orcs first came from?”  Elrond asked the first night. 

Azog huffed.  That was an easy one to answer.  Tearing a bite out of his meat before deigning to answer, he said, “No.”  The look of clear disappointment on Elrond’s face was satisfying.  “Why do you care?”

“I am… trying to understand.”  He began slowly.  “I have found of late that my knowledge of orcs and their – culture… is limited, and I wish to correct that.”

Barking laughter was Azog’s answer.  “We do not have a culture, Lord of Elves.  Culture requires art, music, learning, and what little orcs have is easily swept away every few decades or so.  We have no history, no sense of self.”  The more he spoke, the darker his mood became, until Azog was practically glaring down at his meal, grumbling.  “If this is an attempt to learn of our ‘culture’ you will not have much luck.”

“Yet, you know what culture is.”  Elrond seemed surprised, perhaps even impressed, and the expression lit a fire in Azog’s belly.

“What is flight, Lord Elrond?”

Clearly puzzled by the out-of-the-blue question, the elf hesitated to answer.  “It is the ability to fly through the air.”

“Can you fly?”

“Of course not.”

“But you understand what flight is?”

A hard look accompanied his answer.  “I see your point.”  His look turned thoughtful.  “You are very intelligent –“

“If you finish that sentence with ‘for an orc’, I will kill you.”  They did not give him any utensils to eat with, but he could make do with the blunt bones of the animal he’s eating. 

“No, that is not – “He held up his hands in surrender, sighing.  “I only mean that the Dark Lord is not fond of servants who might be wise enough to challenge him.  He tends to favor the easily led.”

“True enough,” He would give the elf that.  “I was bred for a different purpose than most of my kin.  Most orcs are short lived, and capable merely of enough speech and combat to be pointed in the right direction and told, ‘kill’.”

“No more than that?”

“Any more would be dangerous.”  Surely the elf knew that?  But by his eyes, he seemed shocked… even somber.  “Sauron has bred millions of orcs over the ages.  At any time, he may have tens of thousands serving him.  No matter his power, if that kind of force turned on him, he would be finished.”  His meal was almost finished; he began tearing into the bone marrow as he continued.  “He keeps his orcs ignorant, isolated, tormented, and he turns them upon one another so they will not unite against him.”

“That sounds like an unpleasant way to live.”

Azog just looked at him.  He had the pleasure of watching the elf begin to fidget.

“Perhaps that goes unsaid.”

 

* * *

 

 

The routine continued every night.  Lord Elrond busied himself with whatever it was he did during the day, and during the evening they would eat and converse, whatever good that did. 

“Do orcs have a long life span?”

Azog shrugged.  “I cannot say.  I have never seen an orc die a natural death.”  Elrond visibly jumped at that, eyes widened, and Azog took a little pleasure from it.  Orcs never died in peace; they were murdered, eaten, betrayed, killed in battle, or killed by the ‘free peoples’.  “How many orcs have you killed?”

Elrond did not meet his eyes.  “Too many to count,” He muttered.  “What of your age?  Do you know how long you have lived?”

“By the count of years, no,” He admitted.  So much time spent in the darkness, hiding in shadow, made time melt away.  There were no days and night, no months and years in the ruins and chasms of the world.  “But I am one of the few orcs who can claim to have been made not by Sauron, but by his master.”

“Morgoth?”  If he was shocked before, Elrond was speechless now.  “Then – you are older than I.”

“And how old are you, little elf?”  The words irritated the elf, which meant Azog would be calling him that from now on. 

“I was born in the year 532 of the First Age.”  Clearly that meant something to Elrond.  It meant nothing to Azog, but he did not let it show.  “Do orcs not mark the passage of time?”

“The only time that matters is Sauron’s – when he wants us, and how fast.”  Azog told him.  “Months, years, what do they matter to those who spend all their time waiting on orders?”

Elrond seemed to ponder that for a moment.  Azog considered coming up with a question of his own, simply because that was his way of keeping the score even, of unsettling Elrond as much as possible.  But that night he found he did not care.  He was – irritated, anger buzzing like an itch under his skin.

“Do orcs ever marry?”

Azog threw down the goblet in his hand, meeting Elrond’s eyes with a fierce gaze.  “What is the point of this?  You should know the Dark Lord wouldn’t allow such things of his _minions_.”

“Sauron has been greatly weakened for some time, surely in those years orcs have gained some independence?”

“What independence?”  Scoffing, Azog found he could not remain still so he stood, pacing the length of the table.  “All these things you ask of, they are what societies are founded on.  But you cannot have a society without supplies, support, alliances.  What we need, we must scrounge for.  What we want, we must steal.  None of the free peoples would ever trade with us, nor make alliances with us, but by Sauron’s word.”  A fire was building in his throat, spreading through his arms, his legs.  “Even if we went crawling on bent knees to the ‘free peoples’ of Middle-Earth, asking for protection from Sauron, we would be killed on sight.”  Unable to hold it back any longer, Azog turned and let out a roar of rage, slamming his fist down upon the table.  It cracked beneath the force, bending inward. 

In the aftermath, Azog stood, rage stood pounding in his ears.  He turned to Elrond, looking for some reaction, anything – nothing at all.  He left without a word.

 

* * *

 

 

The next night, dinner was a rather quiet affair.  Azog almost thought they’d go the whole evening without saying a word when Elrond finally spoke.

“After yesterday’s questions, I believe we are left somewhat unequal.”  He began.  “You answered many of mine, yet have not asked any of me.” 

Azog looked up, met his grey eyes, so even and peaceful and ever untouched.  “Fine,” Scowling, he took a long swig out of his goblet of wine.  “Are you married, little elf?”

“I am.”  His gaze was downcast, voice cold.  “But my wife has left Middle-Earth, never to return.”

“She went west, then.”  If Elrond was surprised that Azog knew of such things, he didn’t show it.  “Why did she go without you?  Did you bore her?  Were you disappointing as a husband?”  Grinning viciously, Azog could not hide his mirth.

“She was taken by orcs, and tortured,” Elrond told him, quick and dry, without ever looking up.  “and she could find no peace here, anymore.”

Azog’s grin died.  “I… am sorry.”

That lifted the elf’s gaze.  “Thank you.”  He seemed genuine.  Not that Azog cared. 

“Do you have children?”

“Yes,” Elrond told him.  “Two boys, and a girl.”  His tone there was tense, clipped.  Azog did not say anything of it.

“Have they gone west as well?”

“No, they remain on Middle-Earth, if not in Rivendell.  My twin sons spend their winters hunting orcs on a quest of vengeance,” The elf told him with some disdain.  It was not something he approved of, then.  Azog did.  Vengeance for wronged kin was honorable.  “My daughter is with her grandparents.”

He wanted to ask why they were all so far away, wanted to question why the elf spoke of such things with a sorrow that seemed heavier than a temporary parting.  But he found he did not know how to ask, so Azog fell silent.

 

* * *

 

 

The elf was… puzzling.

Azog knew that Elrond had reasons for what he was doing.  There must be a purpose.  But he could not divine it, and asking the elf was as helpful as speaking to rock and expecting a reply.  He seemed to almost enjoy being infuriating and misleading.

A fortnight passed, and Azog still lived.  None of the elves had attacked him, though he was kept under close guard.  Their eyes followed him wherever he went.  Guards were posted outside his room at all hours, and they followed him through Rivendell.  Sometimes, out in the wilderness, he would run them ragged trying to keep up with him.

They would not let him sleep out amid the trees, or in a cave.  They kept him close, in one of their guest suites, which was all too soft for Azog’s liking.  Elves were gentle creatures indeed, to need so much bedding to rest on.  He slept on the floor on the balcony, watching the stars.

One such night, after an evening of heated debate with his host, Azog decided enough was enough.  He was tired of being kept locked in this room, like a pet, awaiting Elrond’s call.  He stood, climbed up onto the balcony, glancing round.  He was on the third floor, and there were guards posted on the ground below.  But there were none above.

Two stories above him was another balcony.  A lantern stood between them, somewhat to the left, an ornate thing made of long lines.  It would be enough.  He leapt, aiming for the lamp, grabbing it with one hand, and swinging round.  With the momentum he built, he pushed off the wall, upwards, and grabbed the bottom of the balcony.  Then it was simply a matter of hoisting himself up.

The door was not locked; elves, apparently, did not believe in privacy, for they locked none of their doors.  Even Azog’s was kept barred by guards, not by machinations.  Azog entered through the doorway, into a dimly lit alcove.

He stepped forward quietly, glancing around.  Bookshelves lined the room, an expansive hall that overlooked another room below.  Azog heard voices coming from the lower floor, and could see light in one corner.  He ducked down, inching forward.

“Surely you realize this is madness!”  He recognized that voice; it was one of the cronies constantly following the little elf around.  “What can you possibly hope to accomplish?”

“I have asked you to trust me, and I would ask it again.”  That was Elrond’s voice, clearly irritated by the rough tone.

“Of course we trust you.”  Another voice spoke.  “But we do not trust the orc.  Nor are any in the valley happy about this, you must know that.  Everyone here has lost someone to a raid, or to the wars.  To have that – that _thing_ , parading around, living here as if it were one of our own –“

“Leave.”

“But, my Lord –“

“Now, Erestor, before I truly lose my patience.”

There was silence, then footsteps, and a door slamming.  Then he heard a heavy sigh.

“He’s right, you know,” A new voice spoke.  “Whatever your reasons are, the beast’s presence has caused unrest in the valley.  It is only a matter of time before someone acts.”

“He is under my protection.”

“You are asking your people to protect the very beast which haunts their nightmares!  The creatures that took so much from them.”

“And Azog himself did this?”

“What?”

“Did he, specifically, attack any of us?”

“What does that matter?  He’s an orc!”

“It should matter!”  Elrond’s voice rose to an angry pitch, more violent than Azog had ever heard it.  Almost as if he were enraged.  “In the past, men and dwarves have wronged our people – yet still we trade with them, we make peace with them, and we do not kill any who simply happen to come our way.  Yet we treat orcs as mindless beasts, lesser than animals!”

“Because that is what they are!”

“And what if you’re wrong?”  Elrond’s anger became a quiet simmer, threatening to burst, as his words grew cold and tense.  Azog felt much the same – a bitter chill overcame him, tingling all down his spine, and he could not move if he wanted to.   “If orcs are not thralls of Sauron or willing servants but wrongly enslaved, with no way to escape their confinement?”

“If they were so against Sauron, or their wicked ways, they would repent.  They would seek out his enemies if they wished to align with them.”

“You should know better than I how such things have gone.”  Elrond retorted.  “In the days of old, elves and men taken by Morgoth who later escaped or were released were rejected by their own people – forced to wander the wilds of Beleriand, sick and hungry, because none would accept them.  I imagine orcs would fare no better.”

Quiet fell for a time, in which Azog heard one of the elves pacing.  Then Elrond spoke again.  “Sauron knows nothing but malice and hate.  He aims to kill all living things on Middle-Earth, because he despises them.  And if we mindlessly hate and kill the orcs, without question, are we – are we not –“

“Lord Elrond!”

Azog almost leapt to his feet to look over the balcony.  He did jump at the thud of someone hitting the ground, listened intently as the elves moved.

“How long?”

“How long… what?”

“Do not think you can trick me as you have the others.”

“… since Estel.”

The other elf cursed; soon, Azog heard them both leave.  He remained in the darkness and the silence, deep in thought, long into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Time passed; the seasons turned to late fall, the trees changing as winter drew near.  The twins did not come home.  It was expected, as they rarely came home earlier than the New Year, but it was also for the first time considered a blessing.  While the whole of Rivendell missed Elladan and Elrohir, they did not enjoy the thought of the boys finding their father hosting an _orc_ in their home.

The skies darkened, and for a time heavy rains fell upon the Trollshaws, and the Bruinen rose higher than it had been in many years.  Bridges set over little rivers in the valley were overcome by the waters, as the storms grew worse.

Lord Elrond passed restrictions upon travel to protect his people, and save them from the weather; but not all who traveled through the Trollshaws were elves.

Four weeks after the orc’s first arrival, Lord Elrond was patrolling the borders of his lands with Erestor.  The worst storm of them all was expected that evening; the lower portions of the valley would be entirely flooded.  Riders had been sent to warn those in danger, and Elrond rode with them, unable to sit idly by while his people were in danger.

“We should return, my lord,” Erestor insisted again, for the third time that hour.  “We have scoured the area, everyone in the valley is taking refuge in the Homely House.”  Elrond was not paying him any mind, which is perhaps why he moved ahead, into his lord’s line of sight.  “We shall be in danger if we do not do the same soon!”

“Return, Erestor,” Looking up, Elrond spoke with finality.  “I will make one final sweep of the valley, and then I will follow you.”  Erestor did not look pleased about it, but he agreed.  Elrond watched him go before turning in the opposite direction, making for the south.  The valley was safe, that was true; but there were places outside Rivendell that might be in danger, and Elrond would not leave them. 

He rode out of the valley, up towards the moors, to those places where travelers most frequented.  If he could save any lives, he would.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where is Lord Elrond?”

Azog glanced up at the name.  They stood in the Hall of Fire, where the orc was under heavy guard, and the place was packed with elves. 

“Has he not returned with you?”  The taller elf, blond and muscular, asked the shorter, dark haired one.

“No, he said he wanted to do another sweep of the valley, and he would follow me.  But it has been hours now, has he not returned?”  The elf glanced round.

“I will find him,” The blond elf made for the door, but the dark haired one leapt in his way.

“Are you a fool?  You could not make it far without drowning!”

“I have faced a Balrog, I think I can handle a little rain.”

“Oh, if you don’t stop bringing that up every time –“

Rolling his eyes, Azog shook his head.  Then he glanced at his guards.  They were all distracted, looking at the argument, clearly concerned for their lord.  None were watching him. Slowly, he slipped back, into the shadows, and then out the nearest side door.

 

* * *

 

There were many roads and bridges through the Trollshaws which travelers used to cross the Bruinen.  Elrond rode past them all, directing any he found to take refuge in his home, and they all agreed to do so gladly.  The rivers surrounding the valley would allow them passage, so long as Elrond willed it; he could conquer those waters, at least.  But nature would take its course, and he could not force the rain to un-flood the valley, nor would he try.  And he could not bend the waters outside the valley to his will.

Just as he was about to return, he came upon a group of travelers who had not fared so well.

He could see their wagon upon the bridge; it was smashed into the side of the stone columns, crushed against them.  Water had risen well above the wheels of the ruined wreck, and the supports of the bridge itself were straining under the violence of the river.  In the water, he could see from afar two figures, young children – where their parents were, he did not want to think. 

They were crying, calling for help, clinging to a rock amidst the turbulent waters, but they would not be able to hold on for long.  The younger, a girl, was able to hold on only because of her brother’s arm around her, holding her above the water. 

Elrond rode to the riverside quickly, leaping off his horse.  The two children eyed him with terror and hope, and he spoke as calmly and reassuringly as he could.  “It will be all right,” He told them, reaching into his pack for rope. 

In truth, he felt his heart pounding in his chest, to see the two young ones as they were.  The bridge was near to collapsing, and the water was only going to rise.  If they did not get out of the river soon, they would not get out at all.

Tying the rope around his steed’s saddle, and then around his own waist, Elrond took to the waters.  The flow of the river was powerful; fighting him every step of the way, and it wasn’t long before he felt his feet leave the bottom.  It was only through holding onto debris and pulling his way that he made it to the children.

“Take her!”  The boy insisted to him, shoving the little girl to Elrond.  He nodded, taking the girl to his chest, lifting her head over the water.  He would have to make two trips; he could not carry both.  Resigned to it, he fought against the river once more, whispering comfort to the trembling girl in his arms. 

The child leapt onto the riverbank and barreled for land, and no sooner than her feet had touched ground, Elrond turned and went back into the river.  He heard the little boy scream; then, a crack like thunder, and the river roared and rose. 

Too late, he turned toward the coming tide, knowing there was nothing he could do.  Part of the bridge had broken, the cart falling into the water, stones cascading into the river.  One of the columns tumbled down, and as it fell into the river it caught the rope in its path.  Elven rope does not break easily, and it did not break now – instead, as the stone sunk into the riverbed, it dragged Elrond down with it, deep below the surface, even as he fought.  But he did not fight for long – there was so much debris, and he had been taken by surprise, and had no warning as a block of stone crashed into his head, and he went unconscious.

 

* * *

 

 

Azog found Elrond’s horse, but he did not see its lord.

The horse was mad, rearing and crying out like it was wounded.  Azog did not try to comfort it; horses were not friendly beasts to him, so unlike wargs.  Then, looking upon it, he saw a rope tied round the beast’s saddle, reaching into the water.  Had Elrond gone under?  He approached, when a human child started screaming.

He had no idea how to calm it.  He thought of trying to be calm, as the child was clearly traumatized, but the more it screamed the more aggravated he got, until Azog screamed, “Silence!”  The child shut its yap.  “Where is the elf?”  It pointed to the river.  Azog had thought as much, and for a moment considered that the elf might be dead. An unwelcome feeling of loss hit him then, and he scowled.

The debris from the bridge had created a wall of sorts in the river, a blockage that was slowing the water down some.  But with time, it would fall, and make Azog’s job much harder.  He approached the water, taking firm hold of the rocks and debris nearby, and went under. 

It was dismally dark, but he was an orc, and he could see.  Far below, Elrond’s body floated, his hair a curtain rising over his face, limbs lax by his side.  Unconscious, then.  The rope around his chest was pulled taut by a stone pillar lying horizontally along the riverbed.

Azog swam down to untie the rope, but no matter how he tugged the bonds, they wound not budge.  He tried cutting them with his claw, to no avail.  Damnable elvish rope!  Scowling, Azog turned his gaze to Elrond.  He needed air.  Lifting his hand, the orc gripped the elf’s jaw, pressed their mouths together, and breathed into his mouth.

He rose, taking another breath, then went down, and repeated the gesture, hoping it might buy him time.  He wasn’t sure how long elves could go without air.  Then he turned his eye upon the pillar.

It was half buried under debris and rock, stuck under the base of the blockage stopping the river.  If he moved it, the whole thing would come crashing down.  Elrond would be fine; the rope would keep him from being dragged downstream. 

Azog swam down to the bottom, on one side of the pillar, digging his hand beneath it.  Pressing his feet to the ground, he pulled it upward, higher, and higher.  The higher it rose, the more it disturbed the debris, until the wall began to help lift the pillar as it collapsed.  Azog finally lifted it high enough to throw it forward, into the wall, and the whole thing came crashing down into the river, setting the water free.  And Azog was swept away with it.

 _There are worse ways to die_ , he thought, before he was pulled under.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as it felt the rope come free, the horse began to pull – and within time, Elrond breached the surface, and was dragged up onto land.

Vaguely he felt he had been dreaming… or having a horrid nightmare, of darkness, and cold… but in the midst of it, came warmth, the touch of hands and lips… where was he?  What had –

The children!  Sitting up, Elrond began to cough viciously, head reeling, even as he glanced round.  The girl was safe, but the boy… he turned to the river.  Gone.

Without a word, Elrond stumbled to his feet, gathering the girl to his side in a woozy daze.  Untying the rope, he haphazardly tucked it away before climbing onto his horse.

He should be heading back to Rivendell, now… but he had a nagging feel, some sense of danger looming over him.  Not for him; for another. Frowning, Elrond closed his eyes, let his Sight overtake him, felt the light inside him reaching for someone…

Opening his eyes, he let the pull guide him towards the north.

 


	2. As Stars Looking Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice this fic description now says there are 4 total chapters, not 2. That's because Azog and Elrond refuse to make their story short, and this idea has really blossomed. 
> 
> Warnings: nakedness, injuries, mentions of blood, some flirting that never goes anywhere, and elves with erections.
> 
> Bigger Warning: The rating of this fic is about to rise after this chapter (I'll change the rating when I've posted the next fic). There will be racy material. If you want to avoid it, don't fret, I'll mark the sections.

He found Azog lying upon the shores of the Bruinen, just outside the valley.  His heart leapt at the sight, whether from fear of how he might find him or relief to find anything at all.  Elrond left his horse and the little girl at once, running as best he could (which was not well) to kneel at the orc’s side.

He still breathed, and seemed to be alive, though certainly worse for the wear.  New bruises and wounds littered his tough hide, and old ones had reopened from the rough ride through the river.  He needed care, and quickly… sitting up, Elrond glanced back, to the child and his steed, and up at the sky, ever darkening, rain already beginning to fall.

Putting his arms under Azog’s, he lifted the orc up, and onto his back, before he stood.  Struggling with the weight, given his own injuries, Elrond fought his way up the riverbank.  It was when he looked up and saw the steed and the child, that he realized they had another problem.

They could not all ride upon the horse.  The three of them would be too much, in fact, just Elrond and Azog might have been too much.  Orcs were heavy set, and Azog was bigger than most orcs.  But they could not walk back to Rivendell in time to escape the storm. 

 _Leave Azog behind_ , a voice that sounded suspiciously like his advisors told him.  _He is an orc, you are an Elven Lord.  What does his life matter?_

Much as he always did on the subject of Azog with his advisors, Elrond ignored that voice.

When he came to stand by the horse, he whispered into its ears, in Elvish, then to the child.  “Take tight hold of the reins,” He told her, and she quickly did so, though she looked at both Elrond and the unconscious orc with great fear.  As Elrond spoke, he worked at removing a bag on the horse’s side. “Have heart; my horse will take you to a safe place, where friends of mine will care for you.  You will be safe.”  He waited for her acknowledgment, and when she nodded, he patted the horse’s flank and backed away.  Off he ran, towards Rivendell.

So the child was safe.  With that care out of his way, Elrond set about to caring for the safety of himself and the orc upon his back.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time he found a cave, the rain was torrential, and he was soaked to the bone.  It was bitterly cold; and as soon as they were both safely within the cave, Elrond set to unclothing Azog.  If they were to survive the night, they would need warmth, and quickly.

“I hope you will forgive me,” Elrond muttered to the unconscious Azog.  “But it is for your well-being,”

As he worked, his mind was kept busy, away from thoughts that might overwhelm him.  Yet, they still lingered in the back of his mind, hovering, waiting to be addressed.  Though he pushed them aside, he could hear them still, like echoes of faraway words:  _why did you save my life?_

He knew that to be the only explanation for his recovery, and Azog’s injuries – that the orc had willingly harmed himself hoping to save Elrond.  He might’ve died, for Elrond to live, and the elf was stunned at the thought. But he did not think on it, did not have the time. 

He opened the bag he’d taken from the horse.  Two blankets of elven make were inside, and would be warmer than any mortal-made shawl.  He used one to dry Azog off, then laid him upon the dry one, and wrung out the first.  Then, he left the cave, moving back into the wilds.

The rain was almost painful it fell so hard, blurring his vision and creating a thunderous cacophony against the earth.  After what was a thankfully brief search, Elrond found his objective: a fallen tree.  Beneath it, the leaves, twigs, and fungi had been protected from the rainfall.  He gathered as much as he could, and sheltering it with his body, he returned to the cave.

Once he was sure he had enough, he shed his own clothes, drying off with the same blanket he’d used on Azog, before spreading it across the ground again.  With the flint in his bag, he created a fire.  He made sure Azog was close enough to benefit from its warmth, before he began checking over the orc’s wounds.  He did not have much in the way of medical supplies, but what he had he used to care for Azog, binding his injuries, putting salve upon his bruises. 

Once that was done, he set to drying their clothes.  Wringing out the wet cloth was a thoughtless, repetitive process.  So, not long after he began, his mind began to drift… he found himself in awe of what had happened that day.  He would have been dead, drowned, if not for Azog.  Azog, who had knowingly risked his life and almost died to save him.

Why?

He could not fathom it, and it only added to the questions he already had about the orc.

The questions began to fade as exhaustion set in.  Elrond could not pretend not to be injured; his head ached profusely, his whole body ringing as if he’d been shaken by a giant.  By the time he had set the clothes out to dry, he was ready to collapse.

He took up the other blanket, thankfully drier than it had been earlier, and sank down against the wall beside Azog.  The best for both of them would be shared body heat, to rest together by the fire… Elrond hesitated to do so.  He wondered how Azog would respond to awakening naked next to an elf.  Not well, he thought, but finally Elrond lifted the blanket around Azog, and laid down beside him, chest to chest, wrapping his arms around him to pull him closer.  Then he tucked the blankets back around them. 

If Azog lived through the night, he would deal with his ire in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

He did live, though he did not wake when Elrond rose some hours later.  It was not quite morning yet, and the storms continued on.  Thunder rolled and lightning cracked the sky, and still Azog did not wake.

Elrond tended his wounds best he could, though they had no clean bandages, and the salve was gone.  Still, Azog seemed to be faring better.

“That orc strength of yours had better pull you through,” He whispered to the sleep forming.  “Or I shall feel much put out.”

“Well, we would not want that,” Came the groggy, quiet response, which became a laugh at Elrond’s little jump.

He frowned at the orc, yet within felt joy and hope blossoming.  “Must you always aim to make a fool of me?”

“It is not my intent – though it can be so easy.”  Azog laughed anew at the grumpy look that Elrond was surely sporting.  But the orc’s look darkened and became serious.  He lifted a hand to Elrond’s brow, and the elf flinched, pain a sudden reminder of his own wounds.  “You are hurt,”

“I am fine,” Elrond found himself lifting a hand to take hold of the one running a finger along his brow, where blood was caked in his hair, and a harsh bruise discolored the side of his forehead.  The elf continued to protest as Azog started to rise, placing his free hand on the orc’s chest to gently press him back down.  He did not oblige.

“Really, just who is the healer here?”  The elf grunted, but he let the orc have his way, finding that doing so brought an odd blush to his cheeks.  Azog ran his hands along the wound, pushing his hair aside to see the damage. 

The reminder of his wounds, of how they came to be here in the first place, brought Elrond’s questions back to mind.  He faltered, feeling them rise in his throat, but did not say them aloud.  Something about them was … disconcerting.  He felt as if his chest were thrumming, his breast practically aflame, at the mere thought of what answers might be given to his questions.  That Azog might have been willing to give his life for Elrond.  That he might _care_.

The fires died at the thought of other answers that might not mean such things.

What did it matter?  Elrond thought suddenly.  Why did he care what this orc thought, this practical stranger who gave him more headaches than anything?

“You seem troubled.”  Azog muttered.  He was close enough Elrond felt his breath upon his ear, and the sensation ran through his skin, made him tremble.  He did not like that he liked it.

“We are stranded naked in a cave, what is to like?”  He quipped grumpily, which only made Azog laugh.

“Some might find such things pleasurable.”

The blush was back.  So were questions, but questions of a safer kind.  “Do orcs have sex?”  When he lifted his head, Elrond found his gaze met with a look that clearly meant, ‘obviously’.  But he continued his thought with, “Do they make love?”

That widened Azog’s eyes, and his hands fell back into his lap.  “Orcs do not love.”  The orc turned his head away.  “Love will get you killed, or tortured upon the rack for weakness.  There is… too much fear and pain in our lives for love.”

“But you could love,” Elrond said softly.  “Free of Sauron, free of the chains that keep you, such things might be possible?”

Azog met his eyes with a strange gaze – narrowed, thoughtful, secretive.  “Perhaps.”  Then, he smiled viciously.  “Do elves have sex?  And no, I do not mean ‘make love’ – I mean _sex_.”

Elrond’s flush deepened.  “Yes.  We are not so distance and unaffected as other peoples may think.  Though, I will say that a lack of desire for sex is perhaps more common among elves than the other peoples of Middle-Earth.”

“There are elves who do not feel any desire?”  Azog quirked an eyebrow.  “Not even this ‘love’ you are so fond of?”

“They might love, but not carnally.  Not everyone feels the passions of the flesh.”

“Do you?”

Somehow, giving that answer in the dim light of the cave, with Azog’s face half in shadow, lit with the dancing flames, both of them naked but for the blanket they shared, seemed dangerous. 

“Yes.” 

If the air seemed tenser than before, Elrond hardly noticed it.  He was caught upon those eyes, always those eyes, more orange than yellow now that they reflected the flames.  Elrond found he was leaning towards that gaze, when a mighty pain wracked his chest and he hissed, pulling into himself.

Two strong arms came around him, gently.  “You need rest,” Azog told him.  “Come, lay by me.”

A little chuckle escaped Elrond as he let himself be pulled down into the orc’s embrace.  “After that conversation?”  He felt more than heard Azog’s rumbling laughter, and reply.

“Neither you nor are I up to anything more than sleep tonight.”

Whether either of them wanted more than sleep was a question which hung in the air, its answer daunting and uncertain.

 

* * *

 

 

When Azog awoke next, the elf was still asleep in his arms. 

Holding him was a strange feeling.  Elves were so… soft, malleable.  His flesh was barely any protection at all.  It was no wonder they always wore so much atop it. 

The orc sat up, feeling the pull of his wounds less than he had the night before.  Good.  He could not afford another day of rest; Elrond needed care, and for that, they would have to return to Rivendell.  It would take the better part of a day to walk there.

Azog went to his clothes, beside the long-dead fire, to find them ruined.  The raging rivers had all but torn them apart, and Elrond in his haste to must’ve done the rest.  Luckily, he did not need clothes so much for protection or warmth, given his thicker skin. 

Elrond’s clothes, though quite dirty, were dry and still usable.  Azog took them to the elf’s side, to see that he had awoken, only barely.  Eyes half open and squinting in the dim light, Elrond watched Azog approach. 

“Your clothes are dry, you should put them back on, you’ll be warmer,” He explained.  Elrond gave a slight nod, and began to rise.

“I think… I may need your assistance to do so,” The elf admitted, voice strained.  Azog watched him struggle to sit up, arms trembling, and he knew this was more than a blow to the head and the trial in the river.  He remembered the night in the library, but said nothing.

Together, they clothed him carefully, and Azog used extra care about his wounds.  Once they were done, Elrond laid back down again.  He closed his eyes.  The fire lit his face with a warm, gentle light, glimmering even across his silky, dark hair.  So strange, this growth upon his head, yet looking now Azog found it somehow beautiful.  The way it gleamed, how it fell in soft lines across his face.

“Why?”  Elrond’s voice was weak, half-asleep.

“You should rest.” 

“I must know,” The elf turned slightly, looking up at him, half-opened eyes shimmering like stars.  “Why did you save me?”

Azog felt his throat tighten.  Reflexively, he clenched and unclenched his fist.  “I might ask you the same.”  For a moment, Elrond looked confused.  “Why did you spare me?”

It seemed to come to him – he glanced away, towards the fire.  “I thought – looking at you, you seemed… familiar.  I thought perhaps you were someone I had met before, who had been kind to me.  But I was not sure.”

“And now?”

The elf looked to him again.  “Now, I find myself afraid to ask.”

“Because you might not find the answer to your liking?”

Elrond replied quietly.  “Because I might like it too well.  I find myself increasingly fond of you, Master Orc.  It does not bode well… for me…”

Off he drifted to sleep, leaving Azog with a lump in his throat and a warm feeling simmering low in his gut.

 

* * *

 

 

By morning, the elf had not awoken again; his condition worsened, until his skin was an almost grey pallor and his breathing labored.  For all Azog could tell, the wound upon his head was healing and had not been infected, but still Elrond grew worse.

He gave Elrond a little time past morning, thinking the elf simply needed more sleep.  It was during that time, sitting at his side, that Azog noticed it.

He was adjusting the elf’s blankets when a shimmer upon Elrond’s hand caught his eye.  Pulling back the long elven sleeve, Azog’s eyes widened.  There upon Elrond’s finger was a ring.  It was simple enough to the eye; a gold band with a blue gem inset in its center.  Yet, Azog knew it for what it was.  His Master had spoken often, and covetously, of the three Rings of Power of the elves, hidden from him so long ago.  Azog eyed it, hand half outstretched.

This would be a fine gift indeed for the Dark Lord.  Enough to earn his favor back, to return to his place of honor, his stature of old… yet, when almost he had touched it, Azog faltered.

At what cost would that victory come, he wondered?  His eyes darted to Elrond’s face.  Surely this ring was what protected Rivendell and kept it safe.  Without it, would the valley fall to darkness?  Would Elrond?  Would the Dark Lord take them for his own, twist and turn them into hollow wrecks of themselves, to further replenish his army… for them to eventually die, as Bolg had died, after a long life of suffering and contempt?

Azog dropped his hand, and he never thought to take the ring again.

When he could wait no more, Azog packed their little camp, bundled Elrond in their blankets, hoisted him into his arms and made for Rivendell.

He walked across the Trollshaws for hours unceasing.  Eventually the land began to turn from brown to green, and slope downward.  When he came to the Bruinen, he had only to cross half its width before he was set upon by elves.

They were on horseback, swords and bows drawn, with the blond one who always followed Elrond around in the lead.  It was to him Azog spoke.  “Your leader is safe, though injured.”  He began.  “He fell into the river and spent the evening recovering in a cave.  I have done him no harm.”

The elf looked him over, and Azog remembered that he was naked and elves were so sensitive about those kinds of things.  In fact, glancing around, he saw all the elves looked embarrassed, affronted, or outraged, save the blond one. 

That one gave a nod, and other elves stepped forward to take Elrond.  Azog wondered if they would leave him to walk on foot, when the blond one motioned for him to ride with him.  He took the offer gladly, and they made haste for Rivendell.

 

* * *

 

 

During the ride back, the elf spoke to him.

“You did not take the ring,”

Somewhat surprised at being addressed, Azog shrugged.  “No,”

“Why?”

It seemed elves were always asking why.  “I did not want it.  Does that satisfy you?”

“Hardly,” The elf scoffed.  “Such a thing had to have been more than a whim.”

“Are you asking if it was some grand gesture?  If I had some wondrous change of heart?  I am who I am, elf.  I doubt my motivations would please you.”

“Perhaps not,” The elf was quiet for a moment.  “You would not take it for the Dark Lord?  Not even for yourself?”

“I never served the Dark Lord willingly, and I will not serve him now,” Azog spat.  “Unless that ring might bring back the dead, I have no use for it.”

The elf’s expression in response was strange, but he said no more.

 

* * *

 

 

Lord Elrond recovered, after some days of rest in a real bed, cared for by his people.  When he awoke, he found his home was very much changed, so far as one orc was concerned.  News had spread fast of the story of the little girl’s rescue, of how Lord Elrond had fallen, and the orc had almost died for him.  Incredulity and shock abounded, but what really changed their hearts was Lord Glorfindel.  He was greatly respected far and wide, and much beloved by elves.  When he bowed at Azog’s feet, thanking him for saving his lord when he could not, and pledging to repay that debt, all of Rivendell was awed.

But there was little time to wonder at the change.  Much had been destroyed during the storms, and there was quite a lot to do to rebuild.  Homes needed repaired, supplies restocked, debris cleared.  In the meantime, the surplus of people at the Homely House had to be cared for, and given places to rest, food to eat.  It was a lot to do, and both Erestor and Lindir took to their duties with fervent gladness.

“You’d think they were glad for the storm,” Azog quipped, looking at them out of Lord Elrond’s balcony.

“They are glad for the work.” He corrected the orc.  It had been a week since his trip into the river, and he was still in bed, drinking tea with a book opened upon his lap.  “They both enjoy being kept busy, and the Homely House does not always offer such stimulation.”  The elf chuckled.  “You should see them discussing the arrival of Erebor’s delegation, they…”

As one, orc and elf reacted; Azog scowled, looking down at his arm with a frown.  Had he been looking up, he might’ve seen the wistful, almost mournful, expression on Elrond’s face.

“When will they be in Rivendell?”

The elf took a moment to answer.  “If they remain on schedule, they should arrive by the second week of the new year.”  He said, pointedly looking away from Azog.

The orc nodded.  “I will leave by then.”  He would have to.  Elrond made no reply.

“You never did answer my question.” 

“Which one?”  Azog chuckled.  “You ask so many.”  Looking up, he met Elrond’s eyes, and they shone with some strong emotion he could not name.

“Why you saved me.”

The orc faltered, gaze drifting down.  “When you are able to ask me about this mysterious stranger you thought I was,” He began.  “I will tell you.”

Smiling, Elrond gave a light nod.  “Fair enough,”

 

* * *

 

Before, their conversations were a strict routine, slightly tense and always capable of exploding in some violent outburst.  They were more like battles than banter, with each person involved only slightly willing to be there, and mostly contemptuous of the other.

That was the greatest change of all in Rivendell after the storm; where before they were two reluctant confidantes, after Azog and Elrond could almost be mistaken for friends.  They took all meals together, morning, noon, and night, and even spent some days entirely with each other.  At times, Elrond would take meals in the main hall, and the elves there welcomed Azog peacefully, if not always warmly. 

Their conversations often delved into deeper topics, but now they also discussed more typical things, from the pains and pleasures of crafting to the various merits of weapons.  It was that question, in fact, which led to both of them and Lord Glorfindel gathered in the training hall one afternoon, three weeks after the river incident.

“The beauty of a sword,” Glorfindel began, twirling his own blade in his right hand, “is its versatility.  It is best suited for nothing, which makes it well suited for everything.  Being unspecialized is its greatest strength.”

Elrond listened to his old friend’s words with a bit of mirth.  Those lines sounded much like the speeches he might give younger elven recruits he was training for battle.  His eyes danced over to Azog; the orc was standing by the line of training weapons.  Sauntering down the row, he let his hand trail over the various options, clearly contemplating each one. 

Since his clothes had been ruined by the storm, Erestor had been supplying Azog’s wardrobe, which he never fully wore.  Today, as always, he went topless, wearing blue pants low on his waist, black boots, and a coat left open. 

“That is also its weakness.”  Azog finally said, eying his choice.  Elrond’s eyes widened.  It was a mace, spiked on all sides, which Azog pulled off the rack.  “A sword is quick; simple to use, but it lacks the strength of other weapons.”  A grin was on his face when he turned to Glorfindel.  “Orcs, goblins, trolls, we all have thick skin like armor, and tough hides.  The ‘free peoples’ don metal to defend yourselves.  These are not defenses easily broken by swords.”

“Not easily,” Glorfindel admitted.  “But with a skilled hand.”  With a smirk, he swept his blade upward, into a prepared stance.  “Are you ready?”

Azog merely grinned, before rushing his opponent.

It was a grand battle.  Elrond watched in awe as perhaps the greatest of elven warriors fought against the most feared orc general.  He was not one who reveled in violence, but this?  There was something striking about it, watching the two dance around one another, never injuring each other but marking ‘blows’ by points.  Elrond wasn’t sure who was winning.

That was, in part, because of his own fascination with one of the combatants.  He watched Azog with ever-widening eyes.  The orc had shed his coat during the fight, somehow, and stood glorious beneath the sun which shone on his bare back.  Thick muscles flexing with every blow, Azog dominated the field with a mighty aura Elrond had never felt the like of.  He looked upon Azog and felt the glory of an age-old warrior, and it burned in him in a way nothing had in centuries.

During the fight, others had come to watch, though Elrond hardly noticed them.  He was too busy staring transfixed at Azog’s figure as he danced about the field.  His strength and power shook the field, holding their own with the renowned Glorfindel, for well into an hour.  It was halfway through this venture that Elrond realized something very troubling.

He was aroused.

The thought came to him like a jolt out of the blue, and he almost jumped at the realization.  He must’ve let out some distressed noise, because Azog heard, and spun to face him.  He seemed concerned, brow drawn together in thought – a moment which cost him, as Glorfindel took advantage to earn another point.

In the aftermath, Elrond took his chance to escape, praising the elven style of big, billowing robes all the way back to his office.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t exactly surprising that he found the orc captivating.  Azog had a potent presence, was cunning and intelligent and older than most of Middle-Earth, wise in his own ways and a mighty foe.  Conversations with him were always fascinating, and often challenging, in a way little had been for Elrond these last few years.

Since Estel left… life had seemed to dwindle away from Rivendell.  The twins were gone more and more, exploring further into the world, finding their vengeance could never be quenched and always needing more to stave their thirst.  Arwen loved Rivendell, but found it to be too great a reminder of her lost mother to return.  She still mourned in Lothlorien, and might be many years yet.

His family, gone, his circle of friends, dwindled down to a few servants he’d grown mightily fond of and an ethereal elf who’d known him since he was a babe.  They were not peers, not confidantes, when he must always first be their Lord.  All others he cared for were lost to the stars or scattered to the winds – gone. 

And here was this orc, whom by all rights he should hate, an orc who had long outshone the misty past Elrond first placed him in.  Whether he fought on Dagorlad or not, Azog had proven to be a good man.  Elrond was… fond of him.

But this, this was dangerous, for reasons beyond count.

Elrond collapsed into his desk chair with a heavy sigh.  Leaning upon his elbows, he placed his head in his hands, cursing himself and the Valar’s sense of humor for the predicament he found himself in. 

Friendship with the orc was danger enough.  Azog was the sworn enemy of the Line of Durin, who were not all that fond of Elrond’s people already.  Harboring the orc would be seen as an act of betrayal, perhaps a prelude to war.  The other peoples of Middle-Earth would hardly be much happier; other elves, even, would be appalled to know that one of their own had allowed such a thing. 

Whether they were wrong to think so or not would not change it.

And that was to say nothing of his family, two of whom had sworn upon their mother’s honor to kill all orcs they could in vengeance.  If Elladan and Elrohir found out about Azog… they would never forgive him.  The fear that his sons might discover this new friendship haunted his darkest dreams.

Even if all these things did not stand in his way, there was Azog himself.  A man haunted by a life of violence and hatred, who hardly knew what it was to have friends, let alone anything else.  The carnal desires, he might understand and perhaps reciprocate, but love?

Elrond did not try to fool himself; this was not just desire he felt.  No, this fondness growing within his breast, the swell of joy with which he always greeted Azog, those were signs of much more.  He had been in love enough times to know what it felt like at its start.  The answer was to kill it now, to tear it out before it could take root.  Such feelings could only cause more harm than good.

After all, Elrond thought with another heavy sigh.  Like all others in his life, it seemed, Azog was destined to leave him in time.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do elves only mate with elves?”

Azog saw a smile appear on Elrond’s face.  “We have, at times, reached beyond our kin,” He began.  “I happen to be living proof of such things.”

They were in the library, sharing a bottle of wine after a late dinner.  Festival time was drawing near; decorations were being hung, performances practiced, and plans made for the celebrations to come.  Elrond oversaw most of the preparations, though he chose to dictate some to others.  As such, Azog had seen less of him in the last few weeks or so.

At least, he thought that was the reason, but he was not sure.  Elrond had been tense of late.  He rarely met Azog’s eyes, and often kept distance between them.  The orc wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“How so?”  Azog asked.  He sat at the table, a goblet in one hand, his other arm extended along the surface.

Standing by the fire, Elrond spoke.  “I am one of the Peredhil, the Half-elven, of mixed blood between elves and men.”

Azog quirked his eyebrow.  “Truly?”  Then he gave a light laugh.  “Is that why you differ in appearance?”  Elrond lifted his gaze, questioning, and Azog continued.  “You are much darker than your kin, and you haven’t their blond hair or light eyes.”

“True,” Elrond nodded, a light smile on his face.  “My children favor me in looks as well, though I do not know if that is my mortal blood at work.  Perhaps.”

“Did you know your parents?”

Elrond looked to him.  “Did you not?”

Slowly, the orc shook his head.  “No,” Most orcs never knew who gave them life; nor if, in fact, they had been born to orcs, or if they’d had lives before the torture and the pain.  “Sauron does not allow us such knowledge.  We have no families.  Such loyalties might divide us, or turn us against him.”

“Yet, you had a son, did you not?”

Azog met Elrond’s eyes.  The elf seemed… not nervous exactly, but tentative, unsure. 

“I was different.  It was a mistake that was not allowed again.”  He could see the curiosity in the elf’s eyes, but Azog held up a hand.  “Do not ask.  I will not answer.”  Those were wounds he would not touch, not now.

The elf inclined his head.  “Very well.”  When he lifted his gaze, he seemed thoughtful.  “Would you follow me?”  He gestured to the balcony.  Shrugging, Azog stood, setting his goblet upon the table before following Elrond outside.

It was late night.  The stars above the valley were overwhelming in their splendor, a curtain of sparkling velvet.  “I have rarely seen the sky like this,” He admitted quietly.  “It is almost – disquieting.  Having lived in darkness underground for so long, I… do not know what to do with the sky.”  The words were odd, and he almost cursed himself for letting them out.  What did that mean, ‘what to do with the sky’?  He sounded like a fool. 

“It makes you nervous.”

Azog spun on the elf, a vicious rebuttal already on his tongue, but then he set eyes upon his face.  His look was not insulting, not demeaning.  Soft black orbs reflecting the lit above met his, and he saw only kindness and empathy in them.

“… yes.”  Azog muttered. 

The elf gave a little nod, before turning his eyes skyward.  “There,” He pointed up, and Azog followed.  A bright star, near the center of the sky, brighter than all others, was what he gestured to.  “That star,” Dropping his hand, Elrond smiled, but it was a somber look.  “That is my parents.”

What?  Confused, Azog scoffed.  “You were born of a star?”  He knew elves were lofty and indifferent, but that was pushing it.

“No, not the star itself!”  The words brought a chuckle from the elf.  “The star is a jewel, set aboard the bow of a ship, steered by my mother and father.”

“Hmm,” The things elves believed.  “I assume there is a story behind this.”

“Oh yes, a great one, a favorite of the elves,” Elrond said quietly.  “I have never been quite so fond of it.”

“You lived it, I imagine,” Azog replied.  “Seeing darkness with your own eyes tends to destroy its poetry.”

“Yes, it does,” Elrond muttered.  He kept staring up at that star, faraway, his hands clasped in front of him.

“How old were you when…” Awkwardly Azog gestured up.  “That, happened?”

Another chuckle.  “Very young.  I do not remember them well.”  His smile faded.  “They have always been well out of reach, visible only at night, in the darkest and coldest hours.  So far away.”  A bit of bitterness edged into his voice.  “Sometimes I imagine they look down upon me, as I look up at them.  I wonder if they are ashamed of me.”

A dark bitter cold stole over Azog.  He snorted, and turned away.  “Don’t fret,” He forced out, scowling.  “I’m sure your other merits outweigh this… shame.”  Looking down, he stared upon his scarred hand, fuming within, yet feeling strangely hurt.

A hand touched his shoulder and pulled, though he did not budge.  “Do not think I refer to you!”  Elrond insisted behind him.  He kept his hand where it was, standing just behind him, and after taking a moment to reign in his rage, Azog turned his head.  Elrond’s bright eyes met his with a fire equal to his own.  “My failures are many and my shame runs deep, but the only shame I feel because of you is that I have let my own ignorance blind me for so long.  That I never considered there to be more to orcs before I was confronted with it so directly.  For that, I am sorry.”

Azog watched him speak, powerfully aware of the hand on his shoulder.  He turned.  “You truly mean that.”

Elrond nodded.  “Yes,” They held each other’s gaze.  “If my parents are ashamed of my bond with you, then I have neither need nor desire for their pride.”

Azog’s eyes widened.  Shock was an understatement.  “I… thank you.”

The elf nodded, gaze lowering, some of the fire drifting away.  He suddenly jumped, glancing to his hand, and removed it quickly.  “You – are welcome.”  He said stiffly, turning back to the railing. 

They stood in a tense silence for a time, before Elrond turned his gaze back to the stars.  “I used to sing to them, when I was very young.  It has been a long time,” He admitted.  “But… I would… if you would like…”  His voice drifted away, head half turned towards Azog.

The orc did not understand, for a moment, before he recognized the hope in the elf’s eyes.  “You would sing for me?”  Songs were intimate gestures for elves, important in their culture, shared with friends and family.  Orcs did not value them such; what music they had was part of their hierarchy, used to reinforce the balance of power.  Odes to generals and chieftains, songs of loyalty to the Dark Lord.  Not… friendly.

“Yes, if that would please you.”  Was it just him, or had a bit of a blush stolen across Elrond’s face? 

“It would.” 

 Elrond lifted his gaze to the stars, and began to sing.

 

_Love hold my hand_

_Help me see you with the dawn_

_That those that have left_

_Are not gone_

_But they carry on_

_As stars looking down_

_As nature’s sons_

_And daughters of the heavens_

_You will not ever be forgotten by me_

_In the procession of the mighty stars_

_Your name is sung and tattooed now on my heart_

_Here I will carry, carry, carry you forever_

_You have touched my life_

_So that now_

_Cathedrals of sound are singing, are singing_

_The waves have come to walk with you_

_To where you will live in the land of you,_

_Land of you_

_You will not ever be forgotten by me_

_In the procession of the mighty stars_

_Your name is sung and tattooed now on my heart_

_Here I will carry, carry, carry you_

_Here I will carry, carry, carry you forever.*_

The song came to an end, and silence prevailed.  Azog stared at the figure whose heart he had just heard upon the wind, whose love and longing had been so beautifully (agonizingly) portrayed in those words.  He watched in awe as Elrond slowly lowered his head, his lips still slightly agape, eyes lidded and dark with passion.

“I… forgive me, perhaps that was too – sentimental,” Elrond sighed, and lifted a hand halfway to his face before seeming to think better of it.  “I wrote that when I was but a lad, it was – silly, to think to share with you…”

It took a moment for Azog to realize that Elrond regretted it.

Immediately, he reached out and took firm hold of Elrond’s arm, and the elf’s eyes snapped to his.  “It was… beautiful,” The most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.  Surely the only song he’d ever known that he would cherish as something worthwhile.  “Where I come from, music is harsh, discordant, yet another tool of oppression the Dark Lord holds over us,” Azog told him.  “But your song, it – it was everything music should be.  What I had forgotten music could be.  You have given me back that joy and I thank you for it.”

“I – I don’t know what to say,” Elrond admitted, his face certainly flushed now.  “Thank you, truly,”

Azog felt he might be a little flushed as well.  “You are welcome,” He replied stiffly.  When he realized he still had Elrond’s arm in his hold, he let go.  “It is late, perhaps –“

“Right,” Elrond nodded, stepping towards the door.  “I’m sorry to have kept you,”

“No, it was fine, only –“

“I realize you must have things –“

“You have duties of your own, you –“

They both halted, looking to one another across the space.  When a little smile broke through Elrond’s embarrassed expression, Azog smiled as well.

“Good night, Lord Elrond,” He said finally, with a short bow.  Elrond returned the gesture.

“Good night,” He heard behind him as he turned to go.  “… Azog.”

 

* * *

 

 

He had told himself to rip it out the feelings before they could grow, to not fall in love.

Too late now, Elrond thought dryly, watching Azog’s figure disappear into the hallway.  Too late indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Carry", by Tori Amos


	3. Those That Have Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The winter celebrations approach, as does Azog's inevitable departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of torture, murder, discussions of loss and death, some nakedness, and a bit of making out.

The valley of Rivendell was taken over by the winter spirit in the next few days.

Azog watched it happen with a little mirth and awe.  Orcs did not have yearly holidays such as this.  They might celebrate victories or conquests, but never the simple turn of the seasons, which they hardly recognized.  It was – strange, seeing the colors of the household change to from browns, yellows, and reds, to purples, blues, and whites.   Fall flowers were replaced with evergreens, and long trains of shimmering silk and red berries decorated the halls. 

What changed most was the music.  Songs always echoed out of Elrond’s halls, but during this time, they rang from every corner of the valley.  The most anticipated celebrations were the concerts, where elves who had been preparing songs and stories all year would finally present their works.  Throughout Rivendell, groups of performers were practicing in preparation for the event.

Standing in the Hall of Fire one evening, watching the elves run about, Azog found himself wondering what such a celebration among orcs might be like.

It was an impossible wish; Sauron’s grip upon them was too strong, and the hatred of orcs spread too wide, for them to ever create a haven away from the Dark Lord.  Such fanciful things would have to be left to dreams, Azog thought, glancing around.  It was the harsh truth, but it hurt more than it might have, some months ago.

Azog approached the stage, where currently there stood some sort of instrument.  It was like nothing the orcs had.  They tended to create drums, harps, little things that could be easily carried and easily replaced.  This was – enormous, certainly not portable.  Approaching it, Azog touched the keys gently, not hard enough to make a sound.

“Do you play?”

He turned his head; the elf – Erestor, he thought – stood behind him.  Azog grunted.  “No,” Turning back to the instrument, he let his hand fall away.  “We do not have such things in Moria.”

“It is called a piano.”  Erestor came closer, stepping onto the stage.  “A favorite of Lord Elrond’s.  His wife, the Lady Celebrian, used to play.”   A soft smile came to his lips.  “Yule was a grand celebration when she lived here.  Much greater than this,” 

Azog glanced up.  “I find that hard to imagine.”

The elf chuckled.  “Oh yes, it was.  There was more joy in the house then.  The Lord’s family used to perform; the Lady Arwen would sing, and her brothers played the flute and violin.  There were even times Lady Celebrian convinced her husband to perform, but those were rare indeed,”

“Elrond?  On stage?”  He had a hard time imagining the reclusive, quiet elf performing in front of a crowd.

“He enjoyed it, once.”  Erestor paused, his hand on the piano top tapping out a nervous rhythm.  “Losing Celebrian changed him – changed all of them.  The children lost their mother, but Elrond lost a partner and found himself their sole caretaker, and he did not know how to console them when he was so lost himself.  They each drifted away, and sometimes it feels as if the Lord drifted off with them.”

He paused again.  In that instant, he turned and smiled to Azog, bowing slightly.  “Forgive me, I’ve started to reminisce,” Erestor started.  “I should return to my work,”

Azog nodded in return.  The elf left, leaving him by the piano with a thoughtful look upon his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Elrond read the letter through twice, three times, trying to ignore the fluttering of his heart.

He had to laugh at the last paragraph: _Father, are you sure this Gandalf is a wizard?  He seems more akin to those city charlatans who will, for ten silver, give you your fortune, which is made of riddles and guesses._ He could just imagine his boy, with all his quiet reserve and subtle pride, meeting Gandalf with a nervous frown and clear discontent.  He was far too serious and stern for one so young; perhaps the wizard would help with that.

Holding the paper in both hands, caressing its surface with his thumbs, Elrond felt his mood rise.  It was not quite reconciliation, but it was the longest letter Estel had written him in some time.  He would take it as a good sign.

“My Lord?”

Elrond turned; in the doorway, Lindir stood.  “The pavilion is ready for your approval,”

“Ah, of course,” Tucking the letter inside his coat, Elrond turned to follow him.  “It seems the Yule preparations are more lively this year,”

“Your people are happy, Lord,” Lindir explained, leading the way down the stairs.  “For you are happy.”

Elrond’s eyebrows went up.  “I am?”  Was that so strange?  So noticeable that his people would react to it?

The amusement was clear on Lindir’s face when the elf turned to him.  “You are.”  He said.  “And the whole valley can tell, and we are glad of it.”  As they came out of the building, Lindir muttered quietly, “If an orc can bring you this joy, then I will have to forgive him the stench.”

“Stench?”  Frowning, Elrond came to walk beside Lindir.

The elf was a bit flushed.  “Forgive me, but – perhaps my Lord might introduce Master Azog to the custom of bathing?”

Ah.  “I understand,” In fact, Elrond wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.  Though, thinking of it now… no!  Frowning, Elrond shut the lid upon those thoughts.  They were not appropriate, and what’s more, they were a very bad idea.  As they approached the pavilion, Elrond hesitated by another servant, instructing them to go to Azog and show him to the baths.

 

* * *

 

 

“Your people have turned upon me!”

Elrond looked up in surprise as Azog strode into the dining room, all long angry strides and stern, stiff movements.  “Truly?” He asked.  “How so?”

Collapsing into a chair at the table, he huffed.  “They tried to drown me.”

“Drown -?  Oh,” Elrond said with a start.  “I take it you did not like the baths?”

“Was that your doing?”   The orc’s petulant expression made Elrond smile, which only made Azog grumpier.  “Here I thought you had honor, but now you attempt to kill me through vassals, without even the use of a sword!”

Full laughter escaped the elf lord then.  It was bright and brilliant and it rolled over him without warning.   He could just imagine Azog struggling with the attendants like a cat terrified of water.  The thought made him laugh harder, until he could feel tears at the corners of his eyes.

When he finished, he looked up to see Azog looking at him with something between amusement and amazement.  “I am glad my suffering amuses you so,”

“Forgive me,” Elrond breathed, chest heaving.  “Perhaps I should have spoken of it to you first.  But you must admit, you have become somewhat… foul.”

“Foul?  You have not smelt foul!”  The orc chuckled.  “All this time I have dealt with all your elven perfumes and scents and flowers, yet I have not complained of it once.”

The realization came as a surprise.  “I’m sorry,” Elrond replied.  “I had not thought of it, but orcs do have a keener sense of smell than we do, after all.”  The orc grunted.  “I shall inform my staff.”

That lifted Azog’s gaze.  “You do not have to –“

Elrond held up a hand.  “You are my guest.  I won’t have you suffer for my carelessness.  The least we can do is lessen the amount of incense in common areas, particularly the dining hall.”  In fact, it was something they might consider for the future as well.  Rivendell was home to more than elves, after all.  Perhaps it was time to think of things like this more.

“I thank you,” Azog finally said.  “Though I still refuse your wretched baths.”

A chuckle escaped the elf.  “We shall see.  I think if things continue as they are, Lindir might simply toss a bucket over you!”

They began to eat in pleasant, companionable peace.  It was a nice evening.  Elrond felt for the first time in many months that he had recovered some form of equilibrium.  The world was no longer teetering on its axis.  His son was speaking to him, his people were happy, and all was well.

Azog, mouth full, nodded to Elrond’s hand, before swallowing.  “What is that?”

The elf glanced down.  Not realizing, he had lifted a hand to his jacket in thought, where Estel’s letter was.  He pulled it out.  “It is… a note from my youngest child.”

“The girl in Lothlorien?”

Elrond shook his head.  “No, I – I did not tell you of him.”  Lifting his gaze, he saw the confusion on Azog’s face.  “Estel is a secret, someone whose life might be threatened if his… lineage were known.”

“Ah,” The orc turned away.  “I can see why you did not speak of him.”  He fell silent.

Elrond glanced down to the note.  “He is Isildur’s heir.”  Azog’s head snapped up.  “Related to me quite distantly, through my brother, who has long since passed.  When his father was killed in battle, my sons brought him and his mother here, to protect them.  I raised him as my own, and kept his bloodline secret from all, including himself.”

If Elrond did not know better, he’d think by the look on Azog’s face that the orc was speechless.  “You did not have to tell me that.”

He smiled.  “I did not.  But I trust you, and I do not think Estel has anything to fear from you.”

“No child of yours shall ever come to harm by me,” Azog said suddenly, with powerful conviction.  “That I swear.”

Elrond met his eyes.  They gleamed with passion, with the fury of a father who knew the pain of a child, lost.  “Thank you,” He said finally.  He looked back to the letter.  “Some years ago, Estel left to join his people in the North, to learn their ways.  At that time, I told him the truth, and he… did not take it so well.”  Tension returned to his body, his hands clenching slightly at the memories.  “We exchanged very – heated words, and they were not all kind.”

“Such is the nature of parenthood,” Azog told him.  “There are times when you will be an opponent to be fought, so that your child might become stronger than you.”

“That may be so with orcs, but elves do not fight among their kin,” Elrond sighed.  “Then, Estel is not an elf.  He is a man, and perhaps I did him wrong raising him away from his own kind.  I thought… it was time he knew, that he might join the Dunedain and find belonging there, but perhaps I was wrong.  Did he chose to go or did I push him away?  This short parting of five years has been agony to me, all the more so for knowing that there shall be a permanent parting all too soon.”  His voice hitched as he continued.  “That I shall outlive my son haunts me.  And I fear for Elladan and Elrohir, who are so reckless and full of anger.  I fear I shall outlive them as well.”

The room was quiet but for the crackling of the flames in the fireplace.  This was unfair, Elrond thought suddenly.  To be discussing these fears with one for whom that fear came true.  “I’m sorry,” He said suddenly.  “I should not burden you with this.”

He felt a hand take hold of his atop the table.  “Losing a child is a torment I would not wish upon my worst enemies.”   The hand squeezed tight.  Then he spoke, in heavily accented Sindarin: “ _I mourn with thee.”_

Elrond’s head snapped up.  “What?”

“Was that wrong to say?”  Taken aback, Azog muttered.  “I thought that was how elves expressed sympathy for loss.”

“Yes, it – it is,” Elrond sighed, trying to calm himself.  His heart was thundering in his chest, and in his ears he heard the echo of the past: _I mourn with thee…_ “It is.  Forgive me, you took me by surprise.”

Azog nodded, seeming to accept that answer; his hand remained where it was, gripping Elrond’s, for quite a while.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day found the both of them heading to the communal baths.

“If I’d known you were so fond of water, I’d have left you in that river,” Azog grumbled to Elrond, who walked at his side, shoulder to shoulder.  His comment made the elf chuckle.

“You sound almost like Estel when he was a boy.  He despised his baths. ”

“I like him already.”

Few elves had personal baths in Rivendell; the majority shared the bath houses, a large expanse of buildings near the Homely House. 

“Yule begins in a matter of days, and the festivities require a certain level of,” Elrond waved his hand, searching for a gentler way of saying so.  “Cleanliness.”

“You elves are too sensitive,” Azog huffed.

They stepped into the building together, walking down a long hall to the changing room.  “Here we are,” Elrond gestured to the door.  “I realize this is not typical for you, and I appreciate the gesture.”  He smiled to the orc, who was standing a foot in front of him with a smirk and a quizzical gaze.

“What, you are not joining me?” 

“I – what?”  Heart jumping into his throat, Elrond suddenly found himself busying his hands with straightening his robes.  “I have already bathed today, I have no need –“

“This is your ritual, how am I to know I have completed it correctly?”  He shrugged, seemingly indifferent, but there was a playful look in his eyes that suggested otherwise.  “You must join me.”

“Really, I cannot, I have a great deal of business to attend to…”

He was not taking on for an answer, and Elrond found his argument did make sense.  So, however reluctantly, he followed after Azog into the changing room.  It was a small room, separated by a single wooden divider, and on either wall there were shelves and racks to place clothing and belongings.  Azog approached one side, and Elrond sped to the other, in something of a rush to remove his clothes. 

This was… not good.  In light of his feelings for the orc, and the desire he could already feel pulsing in his veins at the mere thought of bathing with him, it would be hard – that is, difficult, to keep his arousal to himself.  Stripping quickly, Elrond made for the water, pinching his inner thigh and attempting to keep his thoughts on anything he found undesirable.   A dwarf naked – Thorin Oakenshield naked – all his dwarven company naked.  

It did help, for a moment.  And then Azog stepped into the bath.

Elrond had seen the orc naked before.  He was not exactly shy, and tended to prefer less clothing in general.  But in the past, he’d not had the chance to truly see, and take in, the splendid sight before him.  Azog was a striking figure, tall and broad-shouldered, muscular and thick-limbed and – as Elrond could quite suddenly see – well endowed! 

He was different, to say the least.  The grey skin and lack of hair should have been odd to him, but he had become used to them, as part of Azog.  There were scars littered across his whole body, injuries from long ago and only weeks past.   He was nothing like anyone Elrond had ever seen, and somehow all of it made him more desirable, because it was part of him. 

The orc hissed at the first touch of water, and Elrond was pulled from his thoughts.  “You can leap into a surging river unprotected, but a placid bath overcomes you?”

“That was a different situation entirely.”  Azog mumbled.   His arms were held up midair as he forced his way down the steps, and discomfort was clear upon his face.  “Your life was at stake.”

“I could attempt to drown myself if that would help.”

“Continue the glib comments and I may do it for you.”  Yet, the orc was half-smiling when he said it.  As he stepped fully into the bath he hissed again, still holding his arms up against his chest.  “It is – horrid.”  He glanced around.  “Slick, and – I don’t know how to explain in Westron.  Why do you do this willingly to yourselves?”

“Because it is relaxing, and cleanly,” Shaking his head, Elrond approached Azog.  “We find comfort in it.”

“Your skin is soft, perhaps that is why,” The orc muttered, scowling.  “I _despise_ this,”

“Yes, you have said so.”  The elf smirked.  “Why don’t I show you how this is done so you may leave?”

“I would appreciate it.  Quickly.”

Shaking his head, Elrond approached the side of the bath, where various soaps and oils were set.  He took up a washcloth and opened a bottle, pouring some upon it.  When he turned, Azog was there, just behind him.  He tried not to let the proximity bother him.  “Take this,” He gave Azog the first cloth, and then prepared another for himself.  “You cover yourself in the soap and lather it to remove dirt,”

“It smells,” Azog lifted the cloth to his face, grimacing.  “And it is slimy, like slugs.  This is clean?”

“Truly remarkable,” Elrond couldn’t help his laughter.  “Azog the Defiler, conqueror of armies, squeamish over bath soap.”

At that, the orc’s petulant grimace became a challenging smirk, and – was that a growl that came out of his throat?  “Little elf,” Azog murmured, his voice taking on a husky rasp, “You test my patience.”

 

* * *

 

Azog would remember the delightful squeak Elrond let out when he pounced for quite a while.  The rush of water over them almost made him gag, but his vengeance was worth it.  Elf and orc went down under the surface, and when they rose, Elrond’s pretty silver circlet was crooked, and his hair was a sprawling mess. 

“What was that?”

“Orc custom,” Azog grinned.  “Do elves not wrestle?”

“N – No!  And if we did we would certainly not be naked!”

Wait – that smell.  Azog sniffed the air.  That strange, potent scent again.  He’d caught it upon the air the day of his match with Glorfindel in the training ring, before Elrond disappeared, and here it was again.  It wasn’t like anything else he’d smelt in Rivendell.  The horrid perfumes and incenses, he knew by now, and he recognized the airy, flowery scent of every elf he came across as well.  The valley itself had a watery, crisp scent, like snow upon the air.  But this, this was very different…

Elrond adjusted his circlet, then attempted to fix his hair, but it was all caught upon the piece of jewelry.  Azog watched for a moment before scoffing.  He set the rag aside.  “Come here,”

“What, so you may drown me again?”  The elf sputtered, turning away.

“So sensitive, you elves are.”  Chuckling, Azog walked up to Elrond’s back, carefully taking hold of the circlet and removing it from his head.  “I promise I will be gentle.”  He heard the elf’s breath hitch as he began to fix his hair, using his good hand.  The claw would obviously not have sufficed.  It took longer, but in time, Elrond’s hair was vaguely agreeable again.

“Why do you wear that in here anyway?”  The orc asked when he was done.  He approached the side of the bath, picking back up the rag, though he scowled at it.

“To be honest, I forgot I was wearing it.”  He admitted.  “I have worn it for so long, it seems to be a part of me.”

Azog chuckled – then hissed at the first touch of the rag upon his skin.  It was slimy!  Slick and nasty like cave droppings.  Why did elves find this pleasant?   

“Oh, hand it here,”

Azog looked up in time to see Elrond snatch the rag.  “You are going at this the wrong way.”  The elf began.  “Out there, perhaps, your skin is armor, but here you must take sweeter care of it. You are not shining a sword, you are messaging flesh.”

He did not see the difference, and grumbled something to that effect, but he let Elrond have his way.  And after a time, he did feel a difference.  It was… nice.  Elrond’s hands were firm and steady, rubbing back and forth across his back, shoulders, and arms.  It was comforting, almost… arousing.  He clamped down on that thought at once, not permitting it to go any further.

“There,” Elrond said, coming back around to Azog’s front.  “Want to try again?”

“If I must,” Azog replied, but he smiled as he took the rag. 

“You must, if you wish to be permitted to sit with the audience at Yule.”  Elrond quipped as he went after his own rag.  “You would not want to miss it.  The performances are always stunning.”

Azog glanced up to the elf’s bare back.  He had scars of his own, and wounds still healing, but for the most part Azog found him strangely small and soft, almost frail.  And the hair which lightly covered him head to toe was bizarre.  Yet… the elf turned and Azog met his warm, brown eyes, and felt a jolt of lust spring through him. 

“Will you be performing?”

Elrond looked up, eyebrows lifted.  “Me? No, I have not performed in some time.”

“Why not?”

Glancing away, Elrond began to wash.  Azog found his eyes trailing down those long, lithe limbs, following the thin fingers which played across his flesh… “My wife and I used to perform together.”  Elrond began.  Azog lifted his gaze to the elf’s eyes.  “Since she left, I have no partner.  I will admit, I have not had much desire to find one.”

“You should perform.”  Azog found himself saying, working on cleaning his legs.  “You have a lovely voice.”

“It is passable, but thank you.”  The elf laughed.  “Even if I had a partner, I have no songs prepared or music written.”

“What of the song you sang to me?” 

Elrond spun round, a light flush on his cheeks.  “No, I could not,” He said breathlessly.  “That was a rough composition made by an inexperienced boy; it is not a piece for recitals.”

“It could be,” Azog insisted.

Elrond seemed less than convinced, but he inclined his head.  “If I had a partner.”  Then he smiled.  “Now stop delaying, and get to washing.”

“Do not make me tackle you again.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days were fraught with activity, and left little spare time for Lord Elrond.  His involvement in the preparations grew as the Yule drew near, and Azog found himself with a great excess of time to himself.  He spent most of it in his room, away from the chaos of the world outside. 

It was there, in the darkness of his suite, that Azog practiced the _mogruk_.  Well, it was not quite a _mogruk_ , but a crudely fashioned one, made of materials found in the valley.  It was not quite the same, but it was close enough.  The problem was, Azog was no good at it.

Cursing under his breath, the orc fought the urge to throw the thing aside.  What had he been thinking?  It had been literal centuries since he attempted to play, he could not think to learn it again, and compose upon it, in a matter of days. 

The failure still brought a scowl to his face. 

A knock came at the door; Azog called, “Come.”  Lindir appeared in the doorway, and set to removing the dirty clothes at the foot of Azog’s bed.  But when he looked up and caught sight of him with the instrument, he halted.

“That looks like a harp,” The elf began.  “Are you a musician?”

“I was, once,” Azog muttered, still fingering the strings.  “I am not sure I can play it anymore.  I had thought I might prepare a performance to accompany a song Lord Elrond sang, but I do not think I will be ready in time.”

“You wish to play a duet with Lord Elrond?”  Lindir looked pleased at the idea.  Azog gave a slight nod.  “Well, you do not have to be ready for the stage.  Many perform in the recitals, but we have more relaxed shows as well.  Friends will gather and share a meal and drink, and those who feel like performing or telling tales will share them.”

Azog scoffed.  “I do not think any of Elrond’s friends would be pleased by the tales of an orc.”

“Perhaps not,” Lindir admitted.  “But that is all the more reason to tell them.”  The orc lifted his gaze.  “It may be that your tales have gone untold for too long.”  With those words, the elf gave a slight bow, and vanished out the door.

 

* * *

 

What a week, Elrond thought as he walked.  He felt so very tired, worn to the bone with exhaustion.  Yule was always a difficult time and usually Elrond appreciated being kept busy – being too tired to think of those who were not there.   But this year, he found he resented the work a little.

He knew his time with Azog was short, and the closer to the new year they came, the closer they came to his inevitable departure.  Even work Elrond typically enjoyed he began to dislike, because it kept him from Azog.  It was a foolish, silly way to be, like a young one in love for the first time, but he could not help it. 

So it was with no small amount of pleasure that Elrond decided to skip his usual lunch break to seek out the orc.  To his surprise, he was told by Erestor he would find Azog in his personal library.

“He’s been waiting for you for some time,” His assistant had told him.  Off Elrond went, to find his friend, curiosity piqued.

He entered the room and glanced round.  At first, he saw no sign of him.  “Azog?”

“Here,”

The voice came from above.   Elrond took to the stairs, turning to see the orc examining the murals on the second floor.  The elf’s heart quickened at the sight of that which he stood before.  It was the image of Dagorlad, of the Dark Lord near to being vanquished by his enemies.

Azog stood, arms crossed, almost glowering at the painting.  On closer examination, Elrond realized he was glaring at Sauron himself.  “You must truly hate him,” Elrond murmured upon his approach.

“Hate is not a strong enough word,” The orc replied, words filled with spite.  “I would gladly see him dead if I could,”

“I would gladly help you,” Elrond had not suffered so directly at the Dark Lord’s hands, but he too knew what it was to suffer because of his actions.  “But I do not think you came here to talk of him.”

“No, I did not,” With one last glare, Azog turned to him.  “I actually came to speak of Yule.”

“What about?”  Curious, Elrond’s eyebrows quirked.  But before he could hear Azog’s reply, Lindir came bursting into the room on the first floor.

“My Lord!”  Elf and orc approached the railing, looking down.

“Above you, Lindir.”  The elf’s head snapped up, panic clear in his eyes.  Elrond felt terror seize him.  “What has happened?”

“Your daughter, my lord, she,” At those words true fear struck Elrond’s heart.  “She is here!”  Relief flooded him then – only to be followed by another kind of fear.  The elf lord made for the stairs.

“Did she come alone?”

“No,” Lindir shook his head.  “She, um – the Lady of the Wood, she – um –“

“I take it I should leave,” Azog muttered behind him.  Elrond turned to him.

“No, it would be of no use.”  He sighed, feeling his chest tighten to the point of pain.  “Lady Galadriel certainly knew you were here the moment she entered the valley.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite the fact that his heart was pounding and a tremble of fear was running up his spine, Elrond was still overjoyed.  The conflicting feelings warred in his breast the closer they came to the front gate.  When he set eyes upon the carriage, he felt tears truly prick his eyes – and when his daughter stepped down from it, they escaped upon his cheeks.

Arwen glanced up, her gaze finding him, and she beamed.  “ _Ada*_!”  She ran for him, and he gladly opened his arms to her.  Hugging her tight Elrond felt as if he were whole again, as if a wound inside had begun to close.  He kissed her hair, reveled in the joy of her presence, before she stepped away.  It was then her gaze went to the figure beside him, and her eyes widened.

“Arwen, allow me to introduce,” He began quickly, putting his hand upon Azog’s shoulder.  “Azog, a guest of Rivendell.”  Her gaze narrowed and confusion became clear in her eyes as she looked back at her father.  But before she could speak, another figure stepped down from the carriage.

All elves in attendance lowered their heads or bowed in reverence as the Lady Galadriel entered the valley.  Azog followed suit when Elrond pulled on his shoulder.  She came to them as if floating over the ground, her long white train fluttering behind her.

“My lady,” Elrond gave another bow, true terror seizing him.  His hand, which had fallen from Azog’s shoulder, reached out and took his, squeezing tight. 

Lady Galadriel was, by far, the most powerful elf still living in Middle-Earth.  Her magic prowess and political influence was beyond measure – with a single word, she might seal Azog’s fate… and he could do nothing to stop her.

“Lord Elrond,” Her eyes seemed to sparkle as she looked upon him; and as always, before her he felt like a babe again.  When her gaze drifted to Azog, something wistful came to her eyes, almost amused.  “I would call thee by an appropriate title as well, Azog of Moria, but I know not how your people name such things.”

“It is just as well,” Azog began, rising from his bow.  “I am as good as dead to them.  I have no title or homeland anymore.”

“I see,” Lady Galadriel nodded, and that was that.  And every elf around seemed to be looking to one another as if to ask, ‘that is all’?  Elrond, too, found himself feeling a little incredulous.

“ _Denan*_ *,” Arwen began hesitantly.  “This… is he not…?”

“He is your father’s guest,” Galadriel told her.  “As are we.  Come, Arwen.”  She outstretched her hand, and her granddaughter took it, following her into the Homely House.  And that was that.

 

* * *

 

 

The joy of the house only increased with the return of its lady.  All were pleased to have Arwen back home, the more so because her return had not brought an end to Azog’s welcome.  Few would admit it but most of the Homely House had become accustomed, even pleased, by the orc’s continued presence.

The winter festivals began, and both Lady Galadriel and Lady Arwen remained in attendance.  On the night of the first recital, it even began to snow in the valley.

Azog was not fond of snow.  It was like water, but cold, and it was everywhere.  But of course, the elves were fond of it, as it seemed they were fond of every aspect of nature that was inconvenient and obnoxious.  Still, Azog found himself outside standing in it, only to avoid the festivities inside.

He did not begrudge the elves their happiness.  In fact, until that night, he had thought to join them.  But when the evening came and all were gathered in the Hall of Fire, and the instruments prepared, the food arranged, and so much joy brought to one place… Azog found himself uncomfortable.  He could think only of dark caves and dim lights, of fires and metal, of a boy made to be a man all too soon.  He saw Lord Elrond, sitting with his daughter in the front row, and suddenly he simply could not stand to be there anymore.

Bolg’s death was a wound that would not heal.  When Azog lost his arm there was a time where he could not believe its absence, when he would think it was still there only to look and see it gone.  The same was true of his son; there were moment he might forget Bolg had departed the world, only to remember the arrow flying, the blood splattered across the ground, his boy’s body falling limp… he shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

“You walk a strange road.”

The orc turned.  He had been alone a moment ago, of that he was sure; but now, out of nowhere, the elven lady was there, only feet away.  Not a sign of disturbance in the snow, but there she was, wearing a blue cloak and hood which ran long behind her.  He met her eyes.  They gleamed and glistened, dark and beautiful and terrible, like the midnight sky littered with distant stars.

“Strange, and dark,” Galadriel continued.  “A lonely path full of bitter despair.”  Her voice was almost kind and mournful, but for the ethereal quality to it.

Azog felt uncomfortable, taken off-guard by the elf-witch’s words.  “What do you want of me?”  He spat.  “You are missing your festival, you should return to it.”

“I have seen the Yule begin and end long ere you walked this earth,” The elf continued, beginning to saunter slowly behind him.  He turned to face her, not liking having her at his back.  “But I have not seen an orc-lord, a long-loyal servant of Sauron’s, ever as a guest in the House of Elrond.”

“I am not Sauron’s servant!”  He barked, anger flooded him.  “Not anymore.”

“No.”  She agreed.  “You are not.  And you are not sure, now, of what you are – of where you should be, or what you might do with this freedom you have found.”

Scoffing, Azog turned away.  “I am not free.”

“You are hunted.”  Galadriel came to stand on Azog’s other side.   “Yet, you do not remain in Rivendell out of fear.”

The orc’s throat grew tight.  He did not say anything.

“You cannot stay.”

“I know that.”  Azog grumbled, feeling the fire of his rage dim beneath the weight of a sorrow he had not truly allowed himself to feel until now.

“You have begun something.”  Galadriel kept on.  “Created a new path which might change the course of the future for all Middle-Earth.  But it shall be a hard road, and if your people are to prosper by its end, you cannot remain here forever.”  The elf came close enough to look into his eyes, and this time, Azog did see sadness there.  “You must leave him.”

Turning his gaze away, Azog growled. 

“Far away, to the north,” The Lady continued.  “There is a group of orcs who have forsaken Sauron.  They make their homes in the ruins of Arnor, where men dare not live for fear of that which haunts the land.”  Azog took in her words with ever-growing awe, eyes wide as he looked upon her.  “Take the Greenway north, and where the shadow of Fornost falls over Minas Vrûn, you will find your kin.”

Azog gave her a slow nod.  “Thank you.”

The elf fell quiet, turning her gaze out over the valley.  Her voice was soft upon the air as she continued.  “Elrond is not my son by blood, but I love him all the same.  I would see him happy.”  She sighed upon the wind.  “But I do not know if that is in his future – or yours.”

Azog took in her words, and quickly devised their meaning.  “You are the Lady Celebrian’s mother.”  Galadriel turned to him, eyes as distant and unfathomable as ever.  “Does it ever get easier?”  Her gaze darted away, to the snowfall.

“No.”  She told him.  “It is never easy.  His loss shall be a shadow upon your heart so long as you live; but his memory,” A slight smile came to her lips.  “That shall keep you warm amidst the darkness.”

Azog turned to look out at the snow.  When next he looked, Galadriel was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

The first night of the recitals, the chair beside Elrond was empty.  He’d saved it specifically for Azog, and on the other side, saved one for Arwen.   When hours passed and still the orc did not show, Elrond tried to ignore the burning disappointment in his chest.

Beside him, his daughter leaned in.  “You truly are fond of him?”  Her glimmering eyes turned upon him.  “What happened, _ada_ , while I was away?”

“Quite a lot indeed,” He whispered dryly.

“Enough to return and find my father smiling again?”

He turned to look at her.  She wasn’t angry; in fact, she seemed pleased, and was smiling.  “You are not… upset?”

“I was, at first, but everyone in the valley has told me the tale of your friendship at least once,” Arwen chuckled quietly.  “It is – odd.  But it cannot be denied that you have changed, _ada_ , you seem – cheerful again.  I like that look upon you.”  They both fell quiet as the next performer approached the stage, leaving his daughter with a wistful smirk, and Elrond burning with embarrassment.

The second night, Azog reappeared, and a foolish rush of joy overwhelmed Elrond then.  It was less than wise – foolhardy even – but the orc’s mere presence made him happy.  He had wondered that all his friends, his daughter even, where commenting upon his increased mood, but perhaps they were right.  Azog was a wonderful friend, who made him smile and laugh so easily. 

A friend was all he could ever be, Elrond thought, and his mood sunk quite heavily.

They sat, side by side, each night for the festivities, discussing the events and the songs and what meanings they had.  On the third night, Arwen joined in, and Elrond delighted in seeing his daughter and friend together.  The performances were wonderful, or perhaps he simply took more joy in them, for being more happy than usual.  It was the best Yule in a long time.

On the fifth day, Elrond and his closest friends and relatives departed the evening recitals to spend some time together alone, before Lady Galadriel and Lady Arwen departed for Lothlorien.  It pained him to lose his daughter again – moreso for knowing he would lose Azog soon, too.  But he forced his thoughts away from such things. 

That night was a night for joy.  They gathered in his library, with food and drink.  Glorfindel was there with his harp, Erestor with his flute, and Arwen sang with them the songs of old.  Lindir eventually admitted to having a slight talent for the violin and was convinced to join them.  Lady Galadriel sat at her granddaughter’s side, close together, and on her other side was Azog.  Elrond was surprised to see how easily the Lady accepted his presence, but she treated him as any other in Rivendell.

“A toast,” Elrond said sometime in the night.  Glancing round, he watched as the others raised their glasses.  “To friends, old and new, to those who are here, and those who are here no longer.”  He kept his voice light, though his heart thought of the many he had lost, and those with him who soon would leave him.  It was hard to sound joyful, but he managed.

“Here, here!”  Glorfindel called, before taking a drink.  All followed suit, and Elrond sat back down.

“Why don’t you sing now, _ada_?”  Lady Arwen asked.  Elrond almost choked on his drink.

“Yes, sing, Lord Elrond!”  Erestor seconded.  He was a little red in the face, and somewhat taken by drink.

“I – I could not,” The Lord sputtered.  “I haven’t anything prepared.”

“What of that song?”  Azog said to him.  He met the orc’s gaze across the room.  It was – heated, fiery.  There was a passion there that made Elrond’s own heart rise, as if he was strengthened by it. 

“None here know the song to accompany it.”

Azog looked away for a moment, and then stood.  He left the room, and when he returned, he was holding a small instrument made of wood, something like a harp.

“Orcs call this the _mogruk_ , the voice of the people.”  He began as he sat back down.  “The drums are our hearts, beating as one, and this is our voice, singing the praises of our people.  Once it was used solely for darker purposes, but I – if you would permit it…”  The orc hesitated.  “I composed something to accompany your song.”

Elrond’s heart leapt into his throat.

“I… would be honored.”

And so they played together.  Elrond sang, his voice low and heavy, and Azog’s _mogruk_ danced upon the air, light and airy.  It was a beautiful contrast, and as Elrond went through the lines of his song Azog’s tune rushed and ran, or slowed and let out mournful pining tones.  It was a song of mourning, of blessing, of remembering those lost and treasuring their places in one’s heart.  Elrond knew Azog thought of his son when he wrote this, he could hear it in every note, and it brought tears to his eyes, to know that the orc had delved into such pain in order to accompany Elrond’s own heartache, that they might honor both as one.

The song ended; the room erupted into applause, and Elrond found his arms full as his daughter leapt upon him, cheering.  Joy seemed to fill the very air, and Elrond felt elated, almost high with it.  Rapture had come over him.  He could feel the pain beneath it, the coming losses, and the past agonies, but for a time they had been washed away by the here and now, by the happiness in the present.

“I have a story to tell,” He found himself saying.  “If you would hear it.”

“Tell your tale, _ionath nín***,_ ” Galadriel said quietly.  The room fell silent, all eyes upon him.  For a moment Elrond wondered if he should say anything, but before he could lose his bravery, he began.

“When I was but a child, I lost my family.”  He started.  “I lost Earendil and Elwing, my mother and father, to the stars and to legend; Elros, my brother, chose to live a mortal life and I lost him to the ineffable Gift of Men.  There was a time I found myself adrift, with none to call my own, not knowing what I might do to quell the aching loneliness in my heart.”

Elrond could not hold his gaze high; he glanced down, to avoid his fear of what he might see in the eyes around him.  “It was then I met him.  Our High King, Gil-Galad.”

For a moment, he dared to meet his daughter’s eyes.  “In his service, I met your mother,” He told her.  “But it would be some time before our bond would grow to be counted as love.  In those early years, in my service as his Herald, the High King was most precious to me, the closest kin of my heart.  If he ever knew of how I loved him, he did not say, but I do not hold it against him.  I was but a boy then , very young, and my love for him was that of a lonely child pining for what he could not have.”

“We fought together for long years against the Dark Lord.  When finally his stronghold of Bara-dur was cast down and his Ring taken from him, my King fell upon the fields of Dagorlad, never to rise again.”  Elrond’s voice trembled, for but a moment.  He kept on.  “It felt as if I had been slain with him.  Elves may die of grief,” He began, for Azog’s benefit.  “but it is not grief alone which kills them.  It is the loneliness, the suffering of pain without the comfort of any others that brings our end.  An elf in mourning must be reminded that they are not alone or they may follow those they love into the darkness.”

As vividly as if he were still there, Elrond could see the blood-splattered molten fields, taste the ash and filth in his mouth, the scent of sulfur and sweat and suffering upon the air.  “I may have died there,” He continued.  “I felt broken, carved in two – having lost all my family and then the one who held my heart, with none left to mourn me should I die.  I was stricken by my pain, so sure of how alone I was that I felt it would be better to do.  I fell by my Lord’s side and clung to him in my grief.”

“It was then that I saw him.”  Elrond’s voice fell to a whisper.  “A soldier, wearing the armor of Arnor, holding my lord’s spear, Aeglos, at his side.  No others would come near; none dared.  If they had, I might have remembered there were those who care for me,” He glanced to Glorfindel.  “Those who might aid me, but I did not.  I was too lost in the agony.  But it was this soldier,” He continued, “This man, who brought me out of the darkness.  He… knelt at Gil-Galad’s side, and returned his spear to him.  Then, he turned to me, and I remember his eyes.  They shone with the same pain, the same sense of loss, which must have been in mine.  He spoke, in Elvish:  _I mourn with thee_.  He left, and I never saw him again.”

“But that brief moment brought me back – reminded me that I was not alone.  There was one who suffered as I did, who stood and carried on.  That man, I am certain,” Elrond finished, lifting his gaze, meeting Azog’s dark, glistening yellow eyes across the room.  “saved my life.”

 

* * *

 

 

They celebrated into the early hours of morning, when finally his guests departed.  Elrond even made Erestor and Lindir go on to bed, forbidding them from cleaning until after they had rested.  So he was left in his library, dishes and cups spread around, chairs empty, feeling elated, tired, and happier than he had been in some time.

But where was Azog?

He was leaning against his desk, wondering if perhaps the orc had gone to bed, when he felt hot breath upon his neck.  Elrond stiffened.

“Ask,” Azog murmured.  His voice took on a sultry timbre that had Elrond shivering where he stood.  “Ask the question you have been afraid to speak.”

He knew, at once, what Azog spoke of.  With trembling lips and a shaking voice, he spoke.  “Was it you?”  Turning his head, Elrond came face to face with the orc, who was leaning over his desk, hand and claw propped upon its surface.  “Were you the man who spoke to me at Dagorlad?”

Their eyes met; Azog’s gaze was hot and powerful like a summer storm.  He leaned away from the desk, sauntering around it as he began.  “Let me tell you a story,” He started.  Elrond was transfixed by his figure, lit only by the wavering moonlight which fell through the high windows.  He paced to the center of the room, his back towards Elrond, and the elf set hungry eyes upon the naked expanse of skin he longed to touch.

“When the Dark Lord set his purposes to the destruction of Numenor, he left Middle-Earth for a time.”  Azog started.  “His servants were divided amongst themselves, left without a master for the first time since their creation.  It was then that some of us thought that perhaps we would prefer to be our own masters.”  Azog lifted his hand, gazing upon it as if the story were written there.  “Perhaps we would like to be free.  So we left, taking to the mountains.”

“It was a harsh life.  We knew little of how to live on our own, and there were none to help us.  But we were pleased to be away from Mordor’s darkness and the pain of the Dark Lord’s service.  We were… happy.”  Azog turned to Elrond, face half in shadow.  “We made a life of our own, we danced, we sang, we married and made love and had our own children, free of Sauron’s malice.”

“But he was not gone forever.”  Slowly, the orc spun round fully.  There was a space of ten feet between them, let Elrond felt pinned by his heavy gaze, his slow, steady gait.  He clutched the edge of the desk tight.  “When he returned, your High King and the Kings of Men began their war upon them.  We realized this was our chance to truly be rid of him – and so we took it.”

“You enlisted with men?”  Elrond asked.

“We knew our history with elves was harsh enough, and though men might be more likely to listen.”  Azog told him.  He took a step forward.  His heavy footstep in the silence was like a thunderclap, and Elrond’s heartbeat spiked at the sound.  “In time, King Elendil did.  He gave us the armor of his people, clothed us so that none would recognize us as orcs, not in the heat and chaos of battle.”

“I did not do this for your people.  Or for men.”  Azog told him.  He took another step.  Elrond made a half-attempt to back away, only to hit the desk, of course.  “I did not care for any of you.  You may as well have been monsters to me.  Men were foolish, weak, nasty things, and elves?”  Another step.  Elrond’s heart was in his throat.  “Elves did not seem alive.  So distant, aloof, uncaring of anything.  I fought on that battlefield for my people, and no others.”

Another step, and Azog truly had him captive now, their bodies all but touching.  Azog’s limbs came down on either side of him, leaning on the desk, and their lips were mere inches away.   “What changed?”  Elrond whispered, breathlessly.

“I saw you,” Azog murmured.  “I saw an elf kneeling in the blood and dirt, howling to the heavens in his grief.  I had thought your people emotionless, unchanging, yet there you were.  Like any orc mourning their losses, you were mourning yours.”

“You were the one,” Elrond confirmed aloud.  “The man with the yellow eyes.  No man at all.”

“No,” Azog chuckled, his hot breath caressing Elrond’s cheeks. 

“What happened, after the war?”

The orc’s eyes darkened.  He leaned away.  “Sauron was defeated, not destroyed, as you know.”  Scowling, Azog lifted his arms, turned from him.  “He found us, and he tormented us for our treachery.  Torture was too kind a word.  Each and every orc, brutalized and slaughtered, even the children who knew nothing of Dark Lords or wars.”  Elrond’s eyes widened as he listened, as he saw the orcs shoulders begin to shake.  Immediately he approached him, putting a hand on his arm.  “He tortured and killed my mate while I watched, helplessly.”

Realization dawned.  “But your son…?”

“He let my son live, as a threat to me.”  Azog told him.  “He did not kill me, no.  I was tormented, agonized, and then made to live, with the promise that my son would suffer the same should I ever disobey again.  It was to keep the other orcs from seeing us as martyrs.”  Elrond came round to face him, and saw the pain upon his face, the wretchedness in his eyes.  Both hands rose to clasp his, one clutching his hand, the other wrapping gently around the metal length of the claw.  Azog looked down to those hands, and a weak smile appeared on his face.  “I became the monster others always assumed I was.  I killed, tortured, and wreaked havoc where he demanded.  I waged war and toppled nations at his beck and call.”

“You were protecting your son,” Elrond whispered, leaning into him.  “What the Dark Lord forced upon you, you can lay no blame on any but him.”

“Have I no guilt to carry?”

“I will not say no,” Elrond told him.  “But I will say that you have tried to make amends for the suffering you caused, and for that alone you are already a better man than you were before.”

Azog’s gaze lifted, heavy, half-lidded.  Elrond met his eyes, caught by the raging storm he saw there.  And then, he did something more foolish than anything he had ever thought to do: leaned forward, and pressed their lips together.

He came to himself in the next instant, and leapt away, a hand flying to his mouth.  “I – forgive me,” His voice trembled as he backed away, almost tripping over one of the chairs that had been left out.  Agony rose in his breast as the realization of what he’d done, of how stiff and frozen Azog had been, why had he done this, what had possessed him to do this?

_You are such a fool!_

Elrond made to make quick, nervous goodbyes and take his leave, turning round – only to find a strong grip on his upper arm holding him back.  He was spun round, his wide terrified eyes rising to meet two blazing yellow ones, before he was kissed quite soundly.

He gasped into the press of Azog’s lips, and the orc took advantage of the opening.  A warm tongue touched his own and Elrond shivered head to foot, his momentary melancholy chased away by the reality before him.  Azog was kissing him!  He could not imagine that this was anything but a dream, but it felt to real to be imaginary… when they parted, and Azog’s lips drifted down to Elrond’s neck, the elf questioned it.

“Why?”  His breast heaving, cheeks brilliant red, a flurry of emotions waging war inside him, Elrond gave another shiver as the orc tenderly kissed his neck.  When he lifted his head, there was a smirk upon his lips.

“Always with the questions,” Azog rumbled.  Elrond could feel his chest rising, lifted a hand to touch the expanse of skin he had dreamt of for so long.  Azog leaned in, whispered, “No more questions,” against his lips, before sealing them with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ada - father in Elvish
> 
> ** Denan - a short term of endearment I made to mean grandmother in elvish; a combination of "great" and "mother".
> 
> *** Ionath nin - "my son" in elvish.


	4. You Will Not Be Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azog cannot stay forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who has read this and those who have left kudos and kind remarks. I am so happy to know people have enjoyed this story. Thank you thank you!
> 
> Warnings: sex, lots of sex.

How they came to Elrond’s chambers, neither could say; they did not let go of one another for an instant, hands grasping, lips caressing, sighing into one another’s skin as they stumbled to his private chambers.  Once the door shut behind them, Azog pressed Elrond back against it, and the elf let out a breathy moan.

“You want this?” Azog mumbled into his neck, tasting his pulse and reveling in the rising beat. 

“Yes,” Elrond whispered, head thrown back.  “Oh, I have wanted this,”

Laughter was the orc’s answer.  “I realize now,” He muttered quietly.  “There was a strange scent in the air, in the bathhouse, and at the training field that day I fought with Glorfindel.  I know it now for what it is – your arousal.”

Heat flooded Elrond at the thought.  “You – you can smell that?”  He saw the orc’s grin in the dark, moonlight catching on his teeth. 

They kissed; Azog’s lips were harder than Elrond was used to, not pliant and soft like an elf’s, but the mere touch sent fire dancing across his skin.  He felt flushed, uncomfortable in his many layers, and when Azog leaned away Elrond set to removing them.

“For once I am inclined to approve of your method of dress,” The elf muttered, flinging his top robe off.  Azog set him down, and backed away, setting to his own clothes.

“I could tear them off, if you like,”

Elrond, bent over to remove his shoes, smirked at him.  In the dim light, haloed by the windows behind, Azog stood bare.  The sight stole the elf’s voice for a moment.  “Don’t you dare,” He finally whispered mouth dry.  “I happen to be fond of these robes,”

“Then remove them quickly, I cannot promise my patience is unending.”  The orc replied.  His voice fell and grew huskier then.  “I too have waited for this.”

A jolt of pleasure ran up Elrond’s spine, and his smirk became a smile.  He stood slowly, purposefully running his fingers along the fabric across his chest, to the catch behind his neck.  Hair lifted, he met Azog’s eyes with a sly smile, taking all the time in the world.  A growl rumbled in the air.

“Good things come to those who wait,” Elrond quipped dryly.  Within he was aflame, heart hammering, and took a great deal of joy from being watched with such clear passion and desire.

“I will only wait for so long.”  The orc insisted.  Elrond let his gaze wander over Azog’s naked form, taking in the thick muscles, the long limbs, and the organ rising between his thighs.  “For orcs, mating is a challenge.  The suitor must first catch and conquer their love to prove they are worthy.”

Somehow that did not surprise him.  Once upon a time, he might’ve thought it barbaric, but now?  He considered the thought of those blazing eyes, that magnificent form, _conquering_ him –

The thought had just occurred to him, when he took action.  Elrond bolted towards the hall which led to his bedchambers, grinning at the mighty roar which came from behind him.  But he had barely begun to move when he felt a hand grip his robes, arresting his movement.  In the time it took him to stumble, an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him tight to the body behind him, and he could not help but shiver at the touch, at the press of Azog’s loins against him.

Chilled lips pressed into his neck.  He felt more than heard the words spoken against his flesh, raspy and deep.  Shivers sped up his spine, and he was warm, so warm, until… It occurred to him that Azog spoke not in the Common Tongue or any form of Elvish – this was _Black Speech_.  A profane language composed of wretchedness and darkness, never before uttered in Rivendell –

He felt the body behind him freeze.  “I – apologize.”  Azog muttered, lifting his head.  “For a moment, I forgot myself.”

He contemplated it for only a moment, before Elrond spun round to face him.  “Speak whatever language you will,” he whispered.  “But I would have you forget how to speak, with me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Both disrobed, they fell upon each other, and Elrond’s bed.

“Elves and their luxuries,” Azog grumbled into Elrond’s mouth.  His lips began to steadily descend downward, and he complained all the while.  “I would have you in a bed of grass and straw, beneath the stars you so adore,”

“Given who is up there, I would rather them not watch!”

“This bed is – cumbersome,” Sitting up, Azog scowled at a throw pillow before tossing it away.  Only to see there were about twelve more behind Elrond’s head.  “What are these?  Symbols of authority?  The more you have, the higher your status?”

“Perhaps now is not the time to discuss cultural differences,” Elrond sat up, running his hand up Azog’s shoulder to the back of his neck.  Leaning in, Azog smirked.

“Perhaps it is.”  He slipped away from Elrond’s hold, further down the bed.  His arms ran along Elrond’s legs; his only hand tracing along his inner thigh, sweetly teasing.  The other arm was no longer dangerous – the sharp appendage was removable, and was left behind in the other room with Azog’s clothes.  “After all, what do we know of the sexual practices of our respective races?”

The room felt quite hotter suddenly, and breathing became a difficult thing to do.  Elrond felt – tense, pulled taut, painfully aware of every muscle in his body and every inch of his skin.  “For elves, the act is a promise,” He managed, eyes caught upon Azog’s hand, drifting down his lower leg, to his ankle, and back up, beneath his knee.  Merely exploring, his hot leer fixed upon Elrond’s face.  “We do not always remain with those we mate with, but we never forget them.  They – “ Azog’s hand rose higher, to the crease of his inner thigh, and Elrond’s mouth was suddenly very dry.  “They remain in our hearts, always remembered, always treasured.”

“Elves are so poetic in all things.”  Azog rumbled.  He came to hover over Elrond’s mid-section, so blissfully close.  “So composed.  I want to see you _writhe_.”  

Then he – he opened his _mouth_ and –

“Oh, _Valar_!”  Elrond threw his head back, pleasure sparking at the base of his spine.  He could not help but thrust his hips some, shuddering.  “Oh – A – Azog!”

The orc slipped away and let out a barking laugh.  “Don’t tell me elves do not do this?”

“I do not know and I do not care, _do not stop_.”

No sooner than he had said so, Azog complied; wet heat swallowed him to the root, and sucked.  A tongue ran along the bottom side, as Azog lifted his head again, popping off for a moment to lick the tip. 

“That is,” Mind hazy, Elrond struggled to speak.  It felt as if his whole body was heaving, striving for something just out of reach.  “I had not thought…”

“Still able to speak,” Azog tutted, running his cheek along the side of Elrond’s length and grinning at the shiver it got out of him.  “I have not done my job well enough.”

Then, hooking his lower arms into the crooks of Elrond’s knees, he lifted the elf’s legs, and spread them.  The stretch sent a pleasant hum rising through him, but he wondered what Azog might be doing.  Lifting his head, he looked down to see Azog drifting lower between his thighs, to the crease of his rear, and –

A high-pitched litany of elven curses split the air.  Elrond fell back against the pillows again, seizing and writhing, fingers clutching the fabric.  “That – cannot be _sanitary_!”

That made the orc laugh, and the feeling was so strange, and yet it made him tremble.  Why did this feel good?  He felt a tongue run along his – his – he could not think it!  But his skin felt electric in its wake, and he shook all the same.

For a moment, Azog’s head appeared in his line of sight again.  “Little elf,” The orc drawled.  “I have eaten wild boars dirtier than your ass.”

There was a part of him that very much wanted to stop talking and have the orc return to whatever it was he’d been doing.  But the manners ingrained in him from youth held sway.  “You – you cannot tell me orcs do that.  It is so unclean!” 

Azog rolled his eyes, and at the same time, ran a finger along the same skin his tongue had caressed.  Elrond jumped.  “Would you like me to stop?”

Well… when he put it that way.  “I…  no?”

His grin became almost feral, before he bent down again.  When the tongue caressed him once more Elrond could not hold back a whimper, back arching, and when it began to delve _inside_ him, a heady moan escaped his throat.  It danced back and forth; around his hole, teasing, and down the crease, back up again.  But it was the hand which undid him.  As Azog continued his attention, his hand rose to wrap around Elrond’s penis, which was now fully erect and bobbing in the air, moisture dripping down its length.  He had only to tighten his grip and pull upwards once, then twice –

Elrond’s release came over him too quick for warning; the heat surged until it shattered over him, mind gone white, his limbs and chest arched and trembling.  It was so good, almost better than he had remembered it being, and certainly better than anything he’d done alone in the years since… veering away from such thoughts, Elrond simply basked in the aftermath, gasping for breath.

A figure appeared above him, and Elrond felt himself flush with shame.  “I’m so sorry,” He whispered, moving to sit up.  “I – it has been quite a long time.  I was not –“

“Hush, Elrond,” Azog, still kneeling over him, moved to rest his arm over the elf’s head so he could lower himself closer.  “There is no shame in that.  We still have all the hours of the night.”

“Still,” Elrond moved to sit up somewhat, unable to hide his smile at hearing his words.  His name in that deep, accented timbre affected him more than he could say.  “You have seen to my pleasure.  I would do the same for you.”  He had only just said the words, when it came to him what they might do, and a giddy, warm feeling came over him.  “Do orcs ever enter one another from – behind?”  The words were somewhat stilted on his tongue, heat rising to his cheeks.  The mere thought of Azog’s great form dwarfing his, thighs against thighs, with the orc moving inside him…

“No!”  Azog shouted suddenly.  The shock of it cooled Elrond’s fire somewhat.  “No, I would not harm you so.”  There was something like terror upon his face, fear clear in his voice.  Elrond lifted a hand to hold his cheek.

“It does not have to hurt – it should not.”  Confusion showed in the furrow of his eyebrows.  Azog did not meet his eyes.

“Forgive me, I –“ Sighing, He covered Elrond’s hand with his.  “Such acts are not – gentle, among orcs.  I would not mate with you in such a fashion.”

He wasn’t certain he wanted to know what fashion that was.  Standing, he approached his dresser, removing a vial of oil from the top drawer.  “I assure you that among elves, such things,” He started, coming back to the bed.  Instead of sitting upon its surface, he draped himself over his lover, his legs spread over his.  “Are always done with care.”  He unstopped the vial, tipping it to let some drip down along his fingers, rubbing them together to spread it. 

He watched Azog’s eyes follow his fingers down, down to where his own lips had been.  Gently, he rubbed one finger there, before slowly moving it within, letting out a hiss at the feeling.  The elf, biting his lip, continued his ministrations with the knowledge that Azog was watching, and that sent pleasure spiraling through him. 

“What does this mean?”  He asked.  “Among orcs?”

“An act of dominance,” Azog began, half-lidded eyes darkened to warm amber.  “A way of displaying your strength.  For an orc to… be taken and survive, to come out of the experience with the upper hand by not surrendering to passion, they are seen as more powerful.”

“So it is a conflict, not –“ Elrond gasped as he began inserting a second finger.  “Not pleasurable?”

“For the one doing the taking, it can be pleasurable.  But they will be seen as weak, giving in to base desires.”  His gaze lifted to Elrond’s.  “My people have always lived with pain, and now it seems we venerate it.  Such pleasures as we share have not been common in my life.”

“I would give you all the pleasures of this world.”  The elf muttered weakly, trembling.  He was high with joy, high with the feelings flooding through him, with the thought that he was sharing this with the one he loved.  But that word brought fear back to his mind, fears of what this meant for Azog, as opposed to him.   

The orc smiled, leaning in.  “This is more than enough,” He moved in to kiss, and Elrond moved halfway to him, before he came back to himself.

“No!”  Elrond made a face, halting in his movements. 

“No?”  Azog quirked an eyebrow.  “So much for all the pleasures in the world.”

“I -,” The comment took him off guard and he laughed.  “Just go wash your mouth!  I will not kiss you until you are clean.”

He rolled his eyes, but Azog stood, and moved towards Elrond’s personal bath.  “Elves,” He muttered.  Elrond watched him walk away, eyes fixed upon his pert ass, the smile returning to his face.

He was still smiling when he returned to his task, aiming for four fingers given that his partner was… particularly well-endowed.

As pleasant as the task was, despite the stretch, without his partner Elrond could feel dark thoughts creeping back in.  Questions they had not answered, things they had not discussed… realities they could not avoid. 

Yule was over; in the morning, the valley would begin to return to normal.  The decorations would be taken down; the color schemes begin to change as the New Year came closer.  The dwarves of Erebor would be arriving perhaps as soon as a week’s time.  Elrond would be kept quite busy with preparations, discussing meal plans and suite arrangements and…

… this might be their first and only time together.

“Elrond?”

The elf’s head snapped up.  Lost in thought, he’d fallen still, fingers still buried inside himself in a lewd display as if he weren’t contemplating the breaking of his heart.  But he met Azog’s eyes, those eyes he could never forget, and he smiled, and extended his other hand.

“Come, _meleth nín_ *,” He murmured as he removed his hand, and moved to lay back, hair spread like a curtain upon the bed.  “I would know the joy of you inside me before the night is done.”

Still cloaked in night’s shadow, Azog sauntered to his side, came to sit beside him, a sly smirk on his lips.  “Are you sure?”  He chuckled.  “Perhaps I am not clean enough.”

Elrond smacked his leg and he laughed harder.  “You are too clean now; I wish to make a mess of you.”

He took up the vial again; spreading it along his fingers, and then finally took Azog’s length in hand.  The orc groaned against his ear, his hand rising to Elrond’s back.  Fingers trailed along his spine as he coated his lover’s length.

Yet even that could not distract him for long.  He was always the brooding sort; and though he tingled head to foot just to watch his hand slide along the girth that soon would breach him, he could not quiet his mind.

_He is going to leave you._

_Everyone always leaves you._

Azog pressed his forehead to Elrond’s.  “Where are you, _golugizub_?”  He murmured.  “Return to me.”

He lifted his eyes.  “What did you call me?”

“It means ‘my elf.’”

Elrond’s laughter then was not at all pretty.  In fact it was more akin to a snort.  “So you simply call me elf in another tongue?”  He asked, giving his lover a particularly tight squeeze, twisting his hand.  Azog’s breath hitched.

“I – I would call you ‘my love’,” He said, “but we have no word for such things.”

Love.  Elrond’s mind and heart stopped upon the word, his hand hesitating in its task.  Could it be true?  He had dared not hope – had only thought perhaps the orc was fond of him, and found him desirable but not ever that he might return the feelings which burned so brightly in Elrond’s breast…

“I do love you.”  Perhaps the orc could read his mind, for Azog leaned down into Elrond’s line of sight again, a hand lifting to cradle his cheek.  “I did not think I could love, anymore, but you have helped me remember how.  There is so much I lost which you have given back to me.” 

There were no more words; Elrond leaned back, pulling his lover with him, and Azog went gladly.  He came to lay between Elrond’s legs, which the elf wrapped around his thick waist.  In the next few minutes, the orc was seated inside him, a heavy burning in his belly which made him tremble and ache.  He remained still, arms lifted above Elrond’s head, face to face, and they kissed away the time as Elrond grew comfortable.  When he was ready, he let his lover know by lifting his hips.

Their lovemaking was a clash of lips and teeth, hands digging into skin and flesh pounding into flesh.  It was fierce, full of fire, but tempered by the shadow both of them had begun to feel.  Elrond clutched to him tighter, kissed him all the harder, feeling every touch was one of those last touches he might treasure forever.  But in time the building tempest inside him swept all thoughts away.  Azog’s girth spread him wide and pushed deep and the sweet ache of it curled his toes and had him blessing the gods in broken Elvish.

In the early hours of morning, they collapsed beside and upon each other, legs intertwined and arms wrapped round one another.  Elrond rested his head upon Azog’s shoulder, feeling sleep steal over him and fighting it with all he had.  He wanted desperately to be awake for every moment Azog was there, to not have any time between them stolen away.

“I shall leave, come morning.”  Azog whispered, turning towards Elrond.  Those were the words he had expected all night; they struck him like an arrow all the same. 

He rolled, turning to sit up upon Azog’s chest, looking down upon him.  “You will always be welcome here.”  Elrond said, needing the orc to know that, at least.  “You can always stay.”

“And be a danger and a threat to you and all you love?”  Sitting up himself, Azog moved to cradle Elrond in his arms, placing him in his lap.  “No, I will not be a threat to you.  I have already stay far too long for I lacked the discipline to leave you.”

Lifting a hand, Elrond caressed Azog’s cheek, agony flaring in his heart.  But he nodded.  “You do what you must.”

“There are orcs, in the north,” Azog continued.  “Orcs who live free of Sauron.  I thought I might seek them out,” He shrugged, turning to face the windows where the sun was rising.  “See if I might make a new life.”

Of course.  After so long having to live and hide among elves, the chance to be with his own people… and to be free of Sauron?  This was a blessing.  Azog could move on from his past, make a new life, find love and happiness… “I am glad,” Elrond heard himself say.  He felt as if he were far away, watching someone else acting in his place.  “I wish you all the happiness in Middle-Earth.” 

A hand touched his chin, and encouraged him to lift his gaze.  Azog’s eyes with dimmed with sadness of his own.  “That shall be difficult,” He began.  “As I shall be leaving my happiness here, with my heart, with you,”

Tears burned at the corner of Elrond’s eyes.  His hand caught the orc’s.  “Azog, I,” Oh, the things he wished he could say.  That he would go with Azog.  That Azog could stay.  That they could leave and find someplace to live away from all this, from orcs and elves and the politics of Rivendell. 

The orc smiled.  “I know.”  And they kissed, for there was nothing more that could be said.

 

* * *

 

 

They planned to have one last meal together; to dine at breakfast, with Glorfindel and a few others, and bid Azog a fond farewell, and safe journey to the North Downs. 

That was not what happened.

“My Lord!”  Throwing the doors open, Lindir came barreling into the dining hall.  “My Lord, quickly, -“  He did not finish his words before the doors were opened again, slamming once more shut behind the two elves who entered, bows drawn.

Elrond stood at once, fear and panic tightening in his gut.

“ _Ada_ ,” The first elf began voice tense, low and bitter.

“Why is there a beast sitting at your side?”  The second finished, his tone lit with fire.

“Elladan,” Elrond started quietly.  “Elrohir, let me explain.”

 

* * *

 

 

Azog heard those names and very quickly realized these must be Elrond’s two sons; those who swore vengeance upon all orcs for their mother’s suffering.  He stood, shoulder to shoulder with Elrond, but the elf moved to stand in front of him, a hand upon his breast.

The elves were clearly infuriated, though Azog could only guess at what they were saying.  After their sudden introduction, both fell into speaking Elvish, and Elrond followed suit.  But he could tell by the looks on all the faces in the room, and the tones of voices of the speakers, that no one was happy.

He wished to speak for himself, for it was because of him the situation had occurred.  Yet, these were Elrond’s children, and he would not intervene.  Still, the longer he had to stand, listening to them bicker without understanding a word, the angrier he grew.

“Enough!”  Azog shouted finally, moving out from behind Elrond.  He leapt over the dining table, to stand before both elves.  “If you have a problem with me, say so that I may understand.”

Two pairs of furious eyes and two dark scowls met his.  They looked so remarkably like their father, but not so round of face, their expressions not so hard.  There was something more fey about them, something soft, which perhaps their mother gave them.  One of them lowered their bow only to draw a blade, and stepped closer to him.

“Our home has been dishonored and made foul by your presence, beast,” The boy spat.  He began to circle Azog, who merely stood, watching him out of the corners of his eyes.  “We will cleanse it with your blood and stick your head upon a pike!”

“No!”  Elrond let out a shout, running towards them.  Azog felt him standing at his back.  “Elladan, listen to me, there are things you do not understand –“

“What have you done to my father?”  The boy circling him asked.  “You have him under some sort of spell.  The whole valley perhaps, by the look of things.”

“Elladan…”  The second boy did not sound so sure.  His bow relaxed some.  “Ada, who is this?”

“It doesn’t matter!”  Moving again to Azog’s front, Elladan’s grimaced and lifted his blade.  “It’s an orc, and it will die here!”  He went to charge, blade lifted high; when he swung, Azog caught it with his hook, catching the elf in the gut with his elbow, before disarming him and tossing the blade aside.  He was angry, and acting too quick and foolishly.  But that only made him angrier.

Elrond appeared in front of Azog then, hands lifted.  “Elladan, Azog is my guest.”  He began.  “There is no spell that could ever control me so, you know this.  He is my friend!”

“He is an orc!”

“Yes, he is!”  Elrond retorted loudly.  “And a good man!  He has risked his life to save my own, and worked to help protect Imladris.”

“I don’t believe you.”  Hate and malevolence twisted the boy’s face, but these were directed at the boy’s father.  Azog felt fear and pain of his own churning in his gut.  He went to move in front of Elrond again but the elf would not allow it.  “This is the same monster that attacked nana, that hurt her so she chose to leave us!”

“He did no such thing.”  Elrond tried to approach his son, only for Elladan to take a step back.  “Not every orc is guilty of your mother’s suffering.”

“They’re all the same!”  His angry eyes lifted to Azog.  “Beasts and monsters the lot of them!  I will see them wiped off the face of this earth!”

“Azog is under my protection, and so long as you are in my house you shall not kill him!” 

“Then I shall leave your house, and you are my father no longer!” 

The boy spun round, storming for the door, leaving father and brother gaping in his wake.  The other, Elrohir, seemed divided between loyalties; he hesitated where he was, glancing from father to brother, unsure.  Elladan stopped at the door, before turning to yell his name.  “Elrohir!”  It was then the brother began to fall back to him.

Azog did not watch them; he had eyes only for Elrond, who stood transfixed at the sight of his boys leaving.  He watched, stock still, before bolting towards them.  “Elladan, wait, please -!”  But the boy turned and spit at him.  Azog growled at the sight, anger flooding him.  “Elrohir, Elladan!”  Elrond followed them into the hall, and the whole room burst into action.  Azog was after him, and so were others behind him. 

They came to the front hall, the two boys in the lead, Elrond chasing as if his very life depended on it.  He was shouting in elvish, desperate, heart-broken words Azog could not understand, and neither boy would heed him.  They never turned back, only kept walking, and Elrond’s pace began to slow.  Azog watched, horrified, as the elf began to falter, to collapse, crumbling to the floor all of a sudden. 

“Elrond!”  He barreled to the elf’s side; it was only then the two boys stopped, turning around.  Azog flipped him onto his back, to see he’d fallen deathly pale, and unconscious.  He shook him.  “Elrond!”  Nothing.  Lifting him, he tried to feel a pulse, to see if he breathed.  He seemed – seemed so cold – “ _Elrond!”_

 

* * *

 

 

“He is… fading.”

They were gathered in the sitting room outside Elrond’s bedchambers.  Within, healers struggled to save his life.  Without, Glorfindel, Erestor, Lindir, Azog, Lady Galadriel, Arwen, and the two boys sat.  The mood was harsh and dim, all hearts dark, none more so than Azog’s.

“I noticed it some time ago.”  Glorfindel was explaining.  “He told me it has been happening since Estel first left.”  The elves all seemed disdained and upset, but Azog was not only both those things, he was also dreadfully confused.

Erestor must’ve noticed his expression.  “When an elf suffers a great pain or loss,” He began.  “They may be so aggrieved that it costs them their life.  The process of dying from such a wound is called the fading.  Lord Elrond has been suffering so for some time, and now… it may be too late.”

“Why are you speaking to it?”  Elladan scowled.

“Much has changed since you last left, _hên_ **,” Whatever that word meant, it made Elladan’s scowl deepen.  “Have care what you say.”

The boy leapt to his feet, gesturing wildly at Azog.  “He is an orc!”  Sputtering laughter followed those words.  “Since when do the elves of Rivendell do aught but kill orcs?  We do not sit at the table with wargs or goblins, or any other foul thing, but this,” He pointed. “Is given respect?”

“He saved your father’s life at great risk to himself and has earned the respect and loyalty of your Lord’s people.”  Lindir told him.  Elladan turned his scowl upon him.

“I’m sorry,” Elrohir, the other boy, began more quietly.  “But I’m stuck on the part where Father called an orc his _friend_.”

“As Glorfindel has told you,” Erestor spat irritated.  “Much has changed.  Azog has earned his place here, a place, I might add, both you boys take for granted, coming and going as you please without a thought to your father or to your duties here!”

A real argument might’ve sparked then – but Lady Galadriel’s even, potent voice broke through it.  “You carry so much anger in your hearts.”  She began.  “You have suffered, and mourned, and in your pain turn to that which makes you feel strong, to fight the tide of sorrow.  Such things cannot last.  You have come now to the point where your anger no longer aids your survival, but hurts you and your family. You must let it go.”

Then the door to Elrond’s chamber opened.  Everyone fell quiet, looking to the healer.  The elf would not quite meet anyone’s eyes.

“He is deep within the dreaming,” He began with a sigh.  “I cannot reach.  Perhaps a member of the family?”

“I do not think it would be wise to have either of the boys attempt such a thing now.”  Glorfindel said, glaring their way.

“I would gladly do it.”  Arwen stood, pushing ahead of her brothers.  “But… I fear I have had a part to play in his sorrow.”

“There are none here who have not.”  Galadriel told her.  “Yet…” Her gaze lifted to Azog.  “There is one, I believe, who may fare better than us all.”

The boys followed her gaze, and appeared dumbstruck.  “No,” Elladan spat, half laughing, half enraged.  “An orc could not even try!  Orcs do not have the Eldar’s Light.  He could not help Father if he wanted to!”

“I don’t understand half of what’s happening here,” Azog admitted.  “But I will do whatever I can to save Elrond.”

The boys looked incredulous; the healer, relieved.

“Follow me,” He said.

 

* * *

 

 

At seeing him, Azog felt his breath stole away.  He was still and grey, chest hardly rising, exhaustion written into the lines of his face.  Terror and pain welled inside him as Azog came to sit by his lover.

“What’s wrong with him?”  He whispered.

“We call it the Fading,” The elf began.  “Others may not believe so, but the feelings of elves run deep and strong.  When we suffer a pain we cannot face or come to terms with, it eats away at us, until our light fades, and we pass on to the next world.”  Azog lifted a trembling hand to trace Elrond’s skin, all too cold and stiff.  “You must enter into his mind, and find the source of his pain.  If he does not face it, he will never awaken.”

Azog had hardly heard him finish speaking, before he lifted his other hand to Elrond’s face.  He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing… he thought, perhaps, he’d done this in a dream… or… someone had… he closed his eyes…

_The elf’s mind is a library.  It is beautiful, ornate, warm and inviting – yet there is something off.  The books are lined with dust, the shelves hardly touched.  It is a ruin.  A vestige of old knowledge and life worn away, of lives long lost, civilizations crumbled._

_This is a place of sorrow and yearning for what cannot come.  So much has been lost.  Beleriand, Eriador, Gil-Galad, Celebrian, so much death and suffering… he looks and sees a white bird in the sky and his heart aches… he hears a soft voice upon the wind, singing a beautiful song and he aches… so much brings back these memories…_

_He sees a line of tombs, going back to ancient days, he sees a boy barely a man who all too soon shall join this line of kings and have a glorious tomb of his own.  He wears sorrow like a cloak and walks amid the ephemeral, reaching out to touch that he loves only to have it slip away and turn grey and cold._

_A brother, lost to time; a king, lost to war; a wife, lost to grief; children still in mourning who slip through his fingers like water._

_Then there is the human boy; there is Estel. Hope.  He shines like starlight and smiles like sunshine.  Elrond loves the boy as dearly as his own, and they love him, and for a short blissful time of twenty years, life is as it should be.  He feels joy again, and wakes with pleasure to the sunrise, finds happiness in his work and contentment in his life._

_But it does not last._

_Estel comes of age; there are secrets he cannot keep, things he must know for his own safety.  He must know his name is Aragorn, must know of Narsil and Barahir and the things which one day will be expected of him.  He expects anger, even fear; what he receives is outrage.  The boy is furious, and he shouts and raves and cries and storms away, leaving Elrond alone in a cold room with a broken sword.  Within a week he has chosen to leave with the Rangers, without a backwards glance, and Elrond hears their argument again and again in his mind, hears those words repeat all the time: “Did you ever even love me or was I a means to an end?”_

_How can he fix this?_

_The boy writes; the words are cold and the Estel he had loved and raised has drifted away.  His other children are gone.  The people he loves are so far away.  So very, very far away…_

_There is a boy sitting upon the shores of the sea.  It is night; he stares up at the stars, sorrow heavy in his breast, loneliness and bitterness rising up his throat.  He sings, voice weak and melancholic, but he sings.  The words are Elvish, but Azog knows the tune, he knows the song.  Elrond looks up to the heavens and sings his song for his parents, who are so far away._

_Azog approaches him.  The boy does not turn around.  “Where are ada and nana?”  This child-Elrond asks, with wide dark eyes and a youthful face that should never know such pain._

_Azog kneels beside him.  “Your parents have gone to the stars.”_

_“Why?”_

_Always the questions.  “I don’t know, child,” He answers truthfully._

_“Why?”  He asks more insistently, tears breaking upon his face.  “Why did they leave me?”  His gaze lifts, and Azog sees an older pair of eyes, an older soul.  “Why does everyone leave me?”_

_Gods above.  Azog lifts his arms and the boy clambers into his embrace; he pulls him tight to his chest.  Voice cracking, he murmurs into his hair.  “We cannot always keep those we love,” He says, and he thinks of Bolg, oh his son, his poor child.  “Sometimes they’re stolen away, sometimes they leave us, whether they wish to or not.  It isn’t fair, but this is a dreadful world we live in, and it doesn’t deserve the likes of you.  You – you deserve so much better.”_

_Little arms wrap around his neck.  “I don’t want to be alone.”_

_Azog leans back a little, to look into his eyes.  “You are not alone.  Elrond, so long as I live, you will never be alone.”  He lifts his hand, places it upon the child’s shoulder.  “I may not be beside you, I may be far away, but my heart will be here,” His hand goes over his breast, “and though it may take a hundred years I will come back for it.  I will come back for you.”_

_The tear-stained child looks into his eyes; and smiles.  In the blink of an eye he is a man, and he is still smiling._

 

* * *

 

 

Elrond awakened, and Azog remained by his side.  He slipped into the bed with him, at the elf’s gentle insistence, and they sat in silence for a time.

“You will still leave today?”  Elrond asked him. Azog turned, pulling the elf to his chest. 

“I know the pain of losing a child.”  He said.  “I will not be the reason you lose your sons.”

The elf sighed against his breast.  “I do not know what I deserve,” He whispered, moving up to look upon Azog’s face.  “But you, you deserve so much better than what you’ve been given.  I hope the life you find in the north is all you have wanted and more.”  They kissed, and when Elrond leaned away, he moved only so far as to speak.  “Your promise was a kind balm to me, but I shall not hold you to it.”

“It matters not,” Azog told him, kissing him again, before finishing his words.  “For I shall hold true to it, either way.”

 

* * *

 

 

Azog the Defiler left Rivendell that afternoon.

The whole valley came to see him off.  They gifted him their best horse, supplied him with all he needed and could carry, seeing him off over the bridge out of the valley with somber farewells.  Lord Elrond did not see him go; they made their farewells in private, with words and flesh, and Elrond let him go with a heavy heart, lifted only by a dim, distant hope he clung to like a star in the night.

He was still quite ill.  He remained in his bedchambers all day, resting, eyes out the window.  He could see the bridge from there.  Beyond it were the moors of the Trollshaws, the Bruinen, and far beyond, the Lone Lands.  He kept his eyes to that path, his heart and mind with the traveler who followed it.  Night fell; he rose, despite the pain, and hobbled to the window, resting against its frame. 

Elrond watched the stars appear, one by one, but most of all he waited for that one: Earendil.  He wondered if perhaps, far off, Azog looked up and gazed upon that same light, and he prayed to the Valar and to his mother and father to watch over him, to guide him safely north; and perhaps, one day, safely back to him.

After a time, he began to hum a quiet tune, a smile upon his lips, memories warming his heart.  He did not sing the words, but they flourished in his heart, and he sent them on in his wishes to the one whom he loved.

_You will not ever be forgotten by me…_

 

**_The End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't fret my friends! If you wanted a happy ending it's coming - in "The Hearts of Kings!" Elrond and Azog's story will continue in that story, which is the sequel to this. While the dwarves play a more central role at first, Elrond and Azog will enter the tale a little later.
> 
> Again, thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked it! C:
> 
> *hen - elvish for child.

**Author's Note:**

> *The Silmarillion, page 294


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